


Noble Blood

by sarkywoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Bloodplay, R plus L equals J, Vampires, attempted infanticide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampire AU. Noble houses of Westeros are almost all vampires, the exception being Targaryen, who are something else entirely. The story follows the path of the bastard babe that Ned Stark brings home from the war. Jon Snow tastes like no mortal or vampire, but what happens when Robb starts to become rather too dependent on his half-brother's blood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nox_Wicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nox_Wicked/gifts).



> Okay, this was supposed to be a Christmas present. I slightly missed that deadline. I had no idea on January 1st that 2014 was going to be the year from hell. So I've had every intention of writing a good many things, but... yeah. Hopefully I'll get some Bastards & Wards written between trying to glue my life together.
> 
> As this is a present, it has been written with a specific audience in mind. I'm happy for others to read it and enjoy it, but if you don't enjoy it, move on. It only matters if one person in particular likes it as it is now her birthday present.

“Surely not,” Catelyn says as she eyes the squalling red-faced babe wriggling in her husband’s cold arms. In her grasp her newborn son Robb gurgles contentedly, not at all bothered by the ear-piercing wails of his half-brother. It is easy to tell which babe is the lord and which is the bastard.

“We should get in from the cold to discuss this,” Lord Eddard Stark says firmly, striding past her into Winterfell Castle’s keep. 

She follows him inside, walking quickly to try and match his long strides. “What does the cold matter to us?” 

“Nothing to us, but Jon is a mortal babe.”

“You just said he was your sister’s child.” The words come out accusatory, not as she intended. It is not that she does not trust Ned Stark, but even now she fears she does not know him. She was brought into his House in a time of war. They wed in war, bred in war and now she must learn how to live in peace. With a child that is not her own.

“He is Lyanna’s son.”

“Lyanna was of your House. Ice ran through her veins. Why should her son be any different?”

Ned has not stopped walking and they soon ascend the stairs. He says nothing as Cat follows him through to their chamber, whereupon he lays the infant down on the furs of their bed. Finally it stops wailing.

“Milk,” her husband muses, as if to himself. “We will need milk.”

Catelyn has no patience for his evasion. “Ned, how could your sister give life to a child when she had none for herself?”

He finally looks her in the eye and shows his grief. She has never seen such pain in his gaze, though she felt its echo when they first met. Even now he sees her as his brother’s lady, she knows it.

“Lyanna gave her last vital spark to the babe. She has met the final death.”

“Oh Gods,” Cat gasps, clutching Robb tighter to her bosom. “Ned, I’m so sorry.” She puts Robb down beside Jon on the bed so that she can go to her husband. She puts her arms around him and presses her cold cheek to his. “The Targaryens are responsible for this.”

“And all of them dead, I think,” he replies quietly. “We may never know what it was in their blood that made this mixture of blessing and curse. He breathes and cries and feeds like a living thing, but no child from my dear sister should be so warm.” It is true. The babe should be touched by death at the very least, like all bastards of noble houses.

“We cannot raise him here,” Cat murmurs, fear overwhelming her kindness. The babe is of an age with Robb, born of the sister that Ned has lost. He will be treasured, her own true son set aside in his favour. “The cold will do him harm.”

“The commonfolk survive,” Ned points out. “And they without all the furs and cosy hearths that we can provide. He will be fine.”

“We don’t even know what he is.”

Her husband would not be swayed. “All the more reason to keep him close. My sister was not his only parent. Rhaegar’s blood – royal blood – lives on in him. The power of that blood… there is no telling what gifts or curses it may carry. The Targaryens kept their secrets close.”

No vampire had tasted dragon blood and lived to tell the tale. Catelyn turns in her husband’s strong arms and looks again at the babe. The tuft of hair on its newborn head is dark like her husband’s. Dark like Lady Lyanna’s. But if the power of House Stark had overwhelmed the magic of House Targaryen, why would the babe breathe and wail so? Why would he be so hot, like a candle lit in Winterfell? 

“There is one way we might guess,” Catelyn says, stepping from her husband’s hold and allowing her nails to extend and sharpen.

“Cat,” Ned says warningly, but makes no attempt to stop her. He sees the sense in it.

The babe screams when she pushes her claw into its soft, warm arm. This time Robb echoes the wail and the chamber rings with the noise of infantile distress. Cat only inflicts the pain for a second, but the babe cries much longer. As Ned scoops both boys into his arms, Cat puts her blood-tipped finger to her mouth.

It drops her to her knees. Shock jolts through her legs as she hits the cold stone but she barely feels it. Warmth is flooding through her, emanating from the droplets of blood that slide slowly down her throat.

“Cat!”

Her husband is at her side then, helping her stagger to the end of the bed, where she sinks down gratefully. Her skin tingles. Her senses are on edge.

“Please Cat, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

She can see the build of every bristling hair on her husband’s chin. She can feel the vibration of his voice without touching him. She can _smell_ the heat of the babe. Her fangs lengthen and she reaches for the delicious creature again, snarling when Ned holds her back and shakes her.

“Control yourself, Cat!”

For a few moments she cannot. She _has_ to drain it dry. Slowly, Ned’s pleading and Robb’s wailing begin to reach her. With great concentration, she retracts her fangs and claws. Shame crashes over her quickly. She tentatively touches her cheeks and lips to check that she has hidden the secret, ugly face of her hunger.

“I’m sorry. It was… Ned, I’ve never tasted anything like it! He isn’t normal. No common babe has ever tasted like that.”

He takes her hand, inspecting the smudge of blood left on her fingertip. He brings it to his mouth and sucks. Catelyn shivers at the feeling, remembering how long it has been since her husband has been home. 

When Ned relinquishes her finger, he closes his eyes and furrows his brow. Catelyn sees the tension in his limbs. He licks his lips and opens his eyes again to stare past her at the babe.

“We can’t allow any other House to lay their hands on him.” He holds her gaze and when he speaks, his voice is imbued with the power that he uses to command the mortals of the North. “Jon stays in Winterfell.”

*

The Targaryens were not like the nobles of Westeros. They came from far away, where blood ran hot like lava. Where they came from, the dead never rose. The dead slumbered and the living ruled the living, warm blood leading warm blood.

Nobility was not theirs by accident, however. The Targaryens had not ruled through luck and coincidence. They had possessed their own power, not entirely dissimilar to the gifts wielded by the noble Houses of Westeros. They were strong; Ned had known that much before seeing Prince Rhaegar Targaryen withstand the first blow from Robert’s Warhammer, swung in a blood-rage.

He had not withstood the second.

Westeros had warred with itself about the Targaryens when the strange creatures first arrived on their shores, carrying flame and fear. The Lannisters joined them almost immediately, seeing a kinship in the seductive wiles of their new tyrants. But even with their knowledge of glamours and guile, the Lannisters could not have anticipated the might of Targaryen majesty. 

Some vampires possessed the gift to enthral their prey, persuading them to feel love or lust rather than fear. Ned found it distasteful and dishonest, but it was the only method some nobles had to avoid violent feedings. Targaryens were not vampires. They did not need to feed as vampires do. Why then, did they need the power to calm a crowd with a whisper? What possible need could a mortal have for such strength and speed? Was it a god’s jape that they could carry fire in their palm, that natural destroyer so fearful to vampires? And why in that same god’s name did they have to be so inhumanly beautiful?

It is with a heavy heart that Eddard Stark cradles his sister’s son. Jon and Robb are both growing like weeds, though Robb has the advantage. Every day Ned lifts Jon from his crib and wonders if some strange marvel will suddenly present itself. The babe shows no sign of Lyanna’s heritage in how he behaves. He will drink blood if it is given, just as Robb will, but it does not nourish him. Without milk, he sickens. He is like any mundane infant, as if plucked from a farm or market.

Jon’s blood tells a very different story. It sings with power. Ned has not yet put his fangs to Jon’s soft baby skin, but he often smells it on his wife’s breath and tastes it on her lips. She only takes a smudge of blood each time, he knows. He has watched her dab a finger on the little cut. A part of him wants to ask her to stop, but Ned is no fool. He knows the role of a mostly-mortal bastard in a noble House. Jon might not be mortal, but it will be safer to raise him as though he is, even though he shows less vampirism than bastards of other noble houses. When he is old enough he can provide a service, letting blood to his family. Perhaps by then the Targaryen taint will have left him. After all, the royals were well-guarded and insular. They even married one another so as not to dilute the heat of their blood with vampire heritage.

Until Lyanna caught Rhaegar’s eye, that is. Until the day he meets his final death Ned will blame himself for losing her. He will never forget her smile or her laughter.

How can he, when she lives on in the son he raises for her?

*

“He’s adorable.”

“Isn’t he just?”

The maids are whispering, but Catelyn can hear them all the same as she walks towards the chamber set aside for the boys. In his infinite kindness (and sweet naiveté), Ned has deemed that Lyanna’s bastard share the same room as Robb. Cat lets it go for now, though something about Jon Snow puts her on edge. They are too young to understand their different station anyway. For now it is simply a pleasure to hear Robb form his first sentences, to see him grow. 

“I know I shouldn’t be saying this while Lord Stark lives, but it’d be nice to see the little one grow to be Lord of Winterfell, wouldn’t it?”

She has given Ned a strong heir, she feels it already. He is already far more capable than his bastard ‘brother’. Catelyn huffs and pulls her skirts up, walking faster down the hall. The fools might be whispering, but a whisper is sufficient to disturb Robb. She has to reprimand them. 

When she pushes the door open, the maids are not gathered at Robb’s crib. It is the bastard’s that they gather around, cooing and making such ludicrous statements. They back away when they see her, their hearts beginning to pound with fear. She barely keeps her fangs in check.

“If you must think such utter _nonsense_ …” Stronger words like ‘treason’ almost fly from her tongue, “at least keep it to yourself!”

“O-of course, m’lady.” They nod their heads and clasp their hands close to their chests, bandaged wrists pressed to their bosoms. The most bold, a pretty maid of eighteen, steps forward.

“Nothing was meant by it, m’lady. Only that it’d be nice if… given how he’s of warm blood but still… still House Stark…”

“Get _out_!” Cat snarls.

The girls flee in a flurry, leaving Catelyn alone with her son and the little cuckoo that has found shelter in her nest. She steps over to the crib where the bastard is curled up in an excess of blankets. Ned always fears he will be cold.

This is not the first time wandering words have framed Jon Snow as Lord of Winterfell. Not the first, second or even third. The infant is not yet three years of age and already talk has started. She knew it would. He has no right over Robb and no strength to make a claim, but his blood intrigues all the mortals of the north. Ned insists on passing the bastard off as his own, yet questions are asked. A half-vampire child ought to be vampire as well as man. Word spreads like fire and the oddity of Jon Snow is widely known now.

Fools are calling him an omen. Too much hot blood was spilled in the war of the noble dead against the Targaryens. Many wonder why it is right that the dead rule at all, questioning the right of House Baratheon to hold the Iron Throne. Catelyn cannot understand why anyone would wish for more war. Ned says it is the nature of the flock to be fearful after suffering under wolves for so long.

Cat often wonders how the Targaryens managed to be the wolves while vampires had the fangs. Thoughts like that lead her to distrust Jon Snow even more. The last remnant of the fallen order, full of beguiling mysteries and danger.

The room is quiet but for the irritating sound of the bastard’s snuffling breaths. He has been suffering some mild mortal’s sickness for days. The sound grows quieter and quieter as Catelyn pulls the heavy blankets up over his face. Her stomach rolls so violently she feels she could vomit.

It is for Robb. For Ned and House Stark. She repeats it over and over as she walks over to Robb’s crib, where her son has started to stir. Her hands still shake as she lifts him up. It does not feel real.

“Don? Don?”

Robb makes grabbing motions, his little arms reaching over her shoulders towards his ‘brother’s crib. He cannot properly say his ‘J’s yet. Catelyn knows that is normal. She hushes him gently.

“Jon is sleeping. He’s very tired. We have to be quiet.”

“Don sleepy. Sleepy Don.”

“That’s right,” she whispers, holding him in one arm for a moment so that she can wipe away the blood-tear from her right cheek. She does this for Robb. For Ned and House Stark. Their lineage must remain cold. Winter is coming.

The little heartbeat is slowing when Ned bursts into the room like a man possessed. The door slams against the wall, startling little Robb into tears. The Lord of Winterfell looks around the room frantically.

“What have you done?!”

His roar startles her. He has never raised his voice at her before. She can feel the compulsion to answer rising within her. Ned’s voice has a terrifying power. She stays strong for the moment, more from fear than courage.

“I thought you were sleeping,” she says, voice shaking.

Ned storms over to Jon’s crib and tears the blankets away, casting them across the room. He lifts Jon into his arms and strokes a hand gently over the infant’s forehead. The little breaths begin soft and slow, then get stronger once more. The heartbeat starts to pound, recovering from the lack of air. 

Her husband bites into his finger. Once crimson droplets well up at the tip, he places it at Jon’s mouth as the mortal wet-nurse used to with her milky teat. Vampire blood will help to repair any damage Catelyn’s smothering might have started, as well as ease the little one through his shock. Already the bastard’s eyes are open and tearful, staring straight at her even as he drinks.

“Please, Ned… I… I was frightened…” She cannot articulate her fear of this strange, trespassing child. He tastes of sunlight, yet there is a spice of something so much darker. He is always watching them. Robb tells them everything he learns, but Jon stores half of it away in his mysterious little mind, behind eyes that see more than they should. People will fawn over the warm-blooded bastard of House Stark and it will be their downfall.

“Perhaps you’re right to be scared,” Ned says quietly, his voice falling heavy over Robb’s quiet sounds of distress and Jon’s orchestra of mortal noises. “I was woken by a dream.”

“I don’t understand,” Cat whispers. She is waiting to be struck or cast away. She cannot imagine how Ned will handle this attempted betrayal. Will he be able to fathom that she did this out of love?

“I was dreaming of a hunt.” He still sounds half-asleep. “Robert and I had chased down a white hart. Just as I rode over, Jon stepped in front of my horse. I barely reared up in time.” He does not once take his eyes off of his sister’s son while he speaks. “I stepped down from my stallion and asked what in the world he was doing so far from home.”

Ned looks up at her then, meeting her gaze with eyes that reflect her fear.

“He said, ‘papa help, no air’.”

*

Some days Ned can honestly say that rearing sons is harder than ruling the North. Harder, but infinitely more rewarding.

 _At least it will be one day_ , he tells himself as he attempts to concentrate on petitions while the boys scamper about the hall. They are only a few years old, yet Robb’s vampiric heritage ensures he runs as well as a mortal boy twice his age. Jon is determined to keep up. They will rest well once the sun rises, that is for sure. 

Catelyn is with child again. Ned knows she hopes for another son, to further cement the trueborn claim on Winterfell. She fears Jon could threaten Robb’s inheritance. No matter what Ned tells her, he cannot dispel that fear. Cat will not suffer Jon’s presence while she is so near birthing, so Ned is forced to keep him close. Where one boy goes, the other follows.

It is nigh impossible not to keep glancing over at his boys as they play, to check they are alright. He respects his duty too much to neglect it however, so he exerts every bit of willpower to listen intently to the farmers and landowners who have visited him with their problems this day.

In the midst of one farmer’s lament about raiders, a hand tugs at Ned’s leg. “Papa,” Robb says pouting, “I’m hungry.”

The men in the hall look frustrated and Ned understands their annoyance. They journeyed all this way to inform their liege lord of their plight and he sits in his grand hall playing with his sons. He ushers Robb gently away. “We’ll have you fed before bed Robb, now go play with Jon.”

Robb huffs dramatically, then scurries off to play his chasing game with Jon. His fangs have been growing through lately, making him irritable whenever he grows peckish. A few more petitions, then Ned will put the boys to bed.

Ned makes his apologies to the farmer and bids him continue his tale of woe. As the story continues, it becomes clear that he will need to send men to scatter the ironborn raiders. They are not organised, so it should pose no problem unless the Greyjoys have been siring undead indiscriminately again. It is unwise to create so many vampires when the island possesses so few healthy mortals to feed from, but the Greyjoys were never ones to plan. King Robert believes they might be staging some sort of foolish rebellion against the new order. Best to nip it in the bud.

He forgets the boys are there until Ser Rodrik cries out. “My Lord!”

Ned follows his gaze sharply to see Robb has his mouth pressed to Jon’s neck. Small trickles of blood have stained Jon’s collar already. Though Jon’s eyes are full of fear, he does not shout or scream as his brother holds him down against the ground and feeds. Only futile struggles and whispers so quiet that Ned barely hears him as he rushes over. 

“Robb, please stop, it hurts…”

The Lord of Winterfell wrenches his son away from Jon. That makes Jon cry out as Robb’s little fangs rip the skin further. Robb struggles and kicks and gnashes his fangs as Ned lifts him away.

“PUT ME DOWN!” He shrieks. “PAPA, PUT ME DOWN!”

It is the mother of all tantrums and Ned is not prepared. Robb’s fury is giving him a surprising strength for his age. Were Ned a lesser vampire, he might even be bruised by Robb’s boots, which slam repeatedly into his lower chest.

“Ser Rodrik, take Jon to Maester Luwin.”

“NO!” Robb yells, kicking and thumping. “MINE!”

Startled, Rodrik snatches Jon up into his arms and leaves the hall as quickly as he can. Jon’s throat does not look savaged, so Ned reassures himself that Maester Luwin will have him fixed up in no time. The old man has lived a long life of caring for the bitten and knows his work well. That just leaves Ned with Robb to handle. He abandons the farmers in the hall and marches through to the chamber where some of the staff live. Some servants and maids are resting in there at this time of day. They jump to their feet when their lord walks in carrying the wild heir.

“Guinn.” The woman steps forward when called, looking slightly unnerved by Robb’s thrashing and shouting. “I need you to nurse my son. He’s in a frenzy.”

The woman dutifully removes the woollen shawl from around her neck and kneels so that Robb will be able to reach her. She is trembling with fear. Ned can understand that. The family usually feed calmly, but Robb seems little more than a monster right now. He could well rip her throat out. When Ned sets him down, Robb snaps his little fangs at him and dashes for the door. Ned has to grab him fast.

“I have your dinner here, Robb!”

“NO!” Robb smacks him in the chest. Ned barely feels it. Already the little one is tiring himself out. “I want Jon, father. Where’s Jon?” His cousin’s blood glistens at the corners of his mouth. As Ned watches, Robb swipes his tongue around his lips, trying to get every smear of taste.

“He’s with Maester Luwin.” When Robb snarls, Ned shakes him by the shoulders, though he does not put much strength into it. He just needs his attention. “He had to go there because you _hurt_ him!”

Robb’s eyes widen. He shakes his head. “Didn’t.”

“You did. You bit his throat and made him bleed. It made him hurt and made him cry. We had to take him away from you before you hurt him so much that he couldn’t play with you anymore.”

“But… but… I didn’t mean to father, I didn’t! I just wanted to taste. He smelled yummy!”

Ned’s stomach churns, but he reminds himself that Robb is simply too young to understand the subtle nuances of prey and person. He is still little more than a babe, fighting the hunger that has driven much older and wiser vampires to madness. Combining that with Jon’s unique appeal to their kind, they have a recipe for disaster. 

“If you’re hungry, eat from Guinn. Otherwise I’m taking you to bed without dinner.”

Robb sighs and trudges over to the woman’s side. He pushes her hair back with clumsy hands, then hesitates. He peers at the woman’s face.

“It won’t hurt you, will it?”

Already the future lord has learned his lesson. Ned has never been more proud.

But he is still not willing to let Robb in the same room as Jon until Jon’s throat has completely healed.

*

“Robb, darling, come here.”

Her son sighs out of the window and then dashes back to her side, his new little fur boots padding quickly across the floor.

“I was looking for father.”

Catelyn wraps her free arm around Robb’s shoulders and hugs him close. In her other arm she cradles the newest addition to their House, baby Sansa.

“Your father will be home soon. Just… not yet. We must stay strong so that he can be proud of us when he does return.”

“I’m _always_ strong,” Robb says loudly. “I’m almost as strong as father! When I get bigger I’m going to fight on the Iron Islands with him!”

“We’ll see about that,” she murmurs, nuzzling the auburn curls on her son’s head. Ned has joined Robert to beat back the Greyjoy rebellion. The pirates have been draining the common people of the coasts dry for too long. Catelyn goes to sleep every night begging the Seven to end this war faster than the last. She wants Ned to be present for Sansa’s first name day.

“Mother, can I feed? You fed Sansa and I’m hungry too.”

“Oh, I suppose.”

Luckily Robb is too old to suckle from her now. Once his fangs came through they had weaned him off of his mother’s blood and onto the fresh mortals who served Winterfell. It is the general rule of thumb – once they can draw the blood themselves, it is time for them to learn to do so. Feeding a babe vampire blood helps them to grow strong, but to do it indefinitely would undoubtedly cause problems. They would find themselves unable to feed from anyone but vampire kin, and that path led to madness.

“Can I get Jon?” Robb asks gleefully.

“We’ll go together.”

Robb dances around as Catelyn stands, eager to see his bastard half-brother. As Ned is not at Winterfell, Catelyn has taken it upon herself to prepare Jon Snow for the station he can expect in their family. Bastards are only kept in noble houses for one thing. If Jon is to be raised as Ned’s bastard son, it is vital that he meet expectations.

They find him out by the yard bundled up in furs, watching the guards train with their swords. Robb immediately runs over and hugs him, possibly too tight if the grimace on Jon’s face is any indication.

“Your brother needs you,” Catelyn instructs the bastard. “You’re going to behave this time, aren’t you?”

Jon nods, though he looks less than thrilled. He will become accustomed to it in time, but for now the little scratch of pain is off-putting to him. Catelyn has seen enough boys and girls kept for their blood to know that eventually aversion turns to enjoyment. Just as Robb needs to be trained to feed well, Jon needs to be trained to offer his blood up to their House.

The Starks have never believed in public shows of feeding. Ned thinks it damages the loyalty of the mortal folk to see their lords as monsters. So Catelyn takes both boys back to their chamber, whereupon she settles down on one of the chairs with Sansa cuddled to her chest. Robb is bouncing with excitement.

“Okay, make yourself comfortable on the furs. Robb, make sure your fangs are properly out.”

As Jon Snow settles down nervously onto the bed, Robb taps at his fangs gently with his fingertip. It is important they are long and sharp enough to feed neatly. Robb is still so young that he cannot quite control the muscles that he needs to use. He will learn, with practise.

When Robb looks to her eagerly, Catelyn nods. “Go on then.”

Her son leaps onto the bed and settles down on his knees next to Jon, who has unfastened the top laces of his tunic and is shivering slightly. Catelyn would wager that is more from fear than cold. He is adapting well to the temperature of their home, better than the common mortals who have served them for years. 

Robb pats his half-brother on the chest. “I will be really, really gentle,” he promises, words clumsy through his fangs. It makes Catelyn smile with fondness. He is such a sweet child. She hopes for many more years of this before he has to become a strong lord. Ned has to finish this war soon.

Jon tilts his head to the side and exposes his neck to his future lord. Robb latches on quickly, but Jon only gasps. The only sounds in the room are Jon’s shallow breaths and Robb’s gulps as he drinks down the sweet nectar his bastard brother can provide. Jon still possesses the strange Targaryen taste. Cat and Ned have debated weaning Robb off of Jon entirely and onto the serving staff only, but so far they have seen no ill effects. His blood is special, certainly, but it might even be better for them than the usual mortal fare. Afterwards there is always a feeling of enhanced strength and senses, though it does seem to come with some impaired judgement.

“That’s enough now, Robb,” Catelyn says gently.

When her son continues to feed, Catelyn snarls, feeling the ripple of her skin as anger distorts her visage.

“ _Enough_ , Robb!”

He flinches away from Jon’s neck and rubs at the blood on his lips. “Sorry, mother.” Her true face is not something she likes to display, but it often enforces her words faster than the mystical charm she can call upon.

As she watches patiently, Robb leans back down and licks at the wound on Jon’s neck to clean him up.

“You want some of my blood to heal you?” Robb offers sweetly.

Catelyn stands, Sansa still cradled in her arms. “That won’t be necessary, Robb. Leave him to nap.”

“But father says—“

“I know what your father says. I say leave him to nap. We will see him later. Come along now.” Jon Snow is not worthy of Stark blood. It goes against all that she knows to feed a bastard the blood of nobles. If they are to call him a bastard, they must treat him as one. Otherwise the whole deceit will fall to pieces.

Robb pouts, but does as he is told. He presses a quick kiss to Jon’s forehead, earning him a weak smile from the bastard, and pulls furs over him.

As usual, Jon’s blood has Robb running up and down the halls until well past bedtime.

*

Ned is not certain that he has done the right thing. Whenever he looks at Theon Greyjoy’s sullen face he feels like a monster. The boy is only ten years of age and Ned has stolen him from his home and what remains of his family. One life borrowed to save hundreds. That knowledge does little to assuage his guilt every time he catches the child staring out in search of a coastline.

They give him to Ser Rodrik for training. Theon is fast, possessing the supernatural speed common to House Greyjoy, but his skill is lacking. It seems that perhaps Theon’s older brothers had received all the training, for what good it did them in the end. 

It is when they put him on the archery range that the young boy begins to find his feet. Rodrik assures them that he will grow to be a fine archer someday if he puts the time in to train. It seems to give him something to think about aside from the home he has lost. 

With time, Theon’s talk of home becomes less frequent. He smiles more, though it is more of a smirk that he directs towards anything and anyone. Cat finds him a strange boy, but she is struggling with her moods in her pregnancy so Ned pays her distrust little heed. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Vayon Poole… they all say the same thing – Theon Greyjoy is an average student, slowly finding his place in a foreign land. 

Robb seems to think the world of him, for reasons Ned does not quite understand. Maybe it is simply the novelty of a foreigner. Not many tend to travel so far north as Winterfell, given the inhospitality of the region. The visitors that Ned finds interesting are rarely of interest to his young children. So he smiles patiently as Robb tells him how many times Theon hit the bullseye today (normally once) and how many arrows Theon used in total (normally too many). Robb’s attention seems to grant Theon more confidence and Ned has high hopes that it will push him on to be a good role model for the boys.

Not that Jon goes anywhere near Theon.

“I don’t like him father,” Jon whispers when Ned asks him one day. Like it is a secret.

“Why not?” Ned asks, pulling the boy into his lap. It will not be much longer before they are too big for him to do this comfortably. Both Jon and Robb are growing like weeds. 

“Greyjoys eat people up,” Jon says, voice still a whisper, not meeting his father’s eyes.

“Now who have you been talking to?” With Theon’s arrival and the war still fresh in people’s minds, there is a lot of talk about the habits of Greyjoys. Now that the war is won, Ned would rather leave the hatred in the past, but it is hard to stop people talking without resorting to powers he would rather not use on his own men.

“Nobody. But Greyjoys eat people up.”

“So do we,” Ned points out gently. He taps a finger gently against Robb’s most recent bitemark, making his son flinch with surprise. “You don’t seem to mind when we do it.”

Jon huffs out a sigh, sounding as though he has ten times his years. “You just feed. Then you stop. But Greyjoys drink until you’re dead.”

“Who told you that?” Ned asks again. Someone needs to be reminded not to put horrible ideas into the minds of his children.

“ _Nobody_. I saw it. They want all the blood for their Drowned God and they won’t stop until the sea’s red and there’s no more people.”

Ned squeezes his shoulder gently. “Don’t lie to me now, Jon. Who told you this nonsense?”

His adopted son stares at him with wide, hurt eyes. “ _Nobody_. I saw it in a dream. They were all on boats. Then Theon grabbed me and I screamed but he bit me and he drank me and I died.”

“Just a nightmare,” Ned reassures him. Jon must have heard some of the talk around the castle without realising it. “Theon is going to learn our ways here. It’s true the Greyjoys often struggle to resist the feeding urge, but we can teach him.” He sets Jon down on the bed and stands to leave. “He will have forgotten all about the Greyjoy brutality soon, I’m sure.”

He is almost at the door when Jon speaks up again sullenly.

“But it was in _his_ dream that I saw it.”

*

Everyone is so busy with the new baby that Theon could scream. It is so dull in Winterfell with everyone cooing and praying to their stupid tree gods and the stupid seven gods. So the lady has had a baby. So what? It is only another girl, so it is not as if Winterfell has a new potential heir. Just as well really, or Theon would have to keep a careful eye on them. He knows that accidents can happen to the firstborn heirs when a younger son has their eye on their father’s seat and he would not want anything to happen to little Robb.

The brat is sort of adorable, really. He follows him around and cheers when Theon’s arrows hit their mark. That happens more often now. Theon has been training without pause. He used to have this idea that once his family saved him, he could shoot a fiery arrow from the boat so far that it would hit Winterfell and burn it to the ground.

It has been a year now. His family are not coming to save him.

That does not really matter of course, as Theon remains his father’s heir. With his brothers gone, he will have the Iron Islands someday. Lord Stark will have to let him go then.

Releasing the final arrow of the day, Theon is gratified to see it hit dead centre. He looks around to tell someone, but there is nobody there. Lady Stark has her son with her, the family gathered around the new baby. Arya, they have named her.

Theon is gathering up his arrows when he spies movement by the castle. He thought the yard was deserted. Quicker than any mortal could dream of, he is at the castle wall, standing over little Jon Snow. 

“Hello Bastard. What are you doing here? Trying to fill Robb’s boots and cheer on my arrows? Being awfully quiet about it.”

The boy’s heart pounds as he backs away, but that only pushes him further back against the cold stone wall. It gets colder around them somehow, a sudden chill whipping into a breeze where they stand.

“Go away,” Jon says, though it is barely loud enough to be heard. Theon smirks. He does not know why he scares the boy so much, but it is fun nonetheless. He reaches out and pokes at the little dried red dots on the bastard’s throat. 

“Looks like you’re ready to serve again,” he says.

Jon’s dark eyes widen. “I don’t serve you! I serve my brother and Lord and Lady Stark!”

“Bastards belong to all nobles,” Theon snaps. “Didn’t your father explain that to you? Give up your neck now. I’m hungry.”

“No!” Jon ducks under Theon’s arm and flees. The chill breeze follows him.

It is pointless to try and outrun a Greyjoy. When the boy runs into the armoury, Theon is already there. He grabs the child and pushes him back against the wall.

“I bet you taste good,” he growls, fangs growing in anticipation.

When he bites down into Jon’s neck, it is nothing like he had expected. He had not really thought the bastard would taste much different from anyone else, but the sweet nectar pouring into his mouth is like a gift straight from the Drowned God’s halls. Rich and sweet, he tastes like sunlight must feel for mortals. There’s a sharpness that occasionally hits his tongue too, only amplifying his desire to keep drinking until he has tasted every thread of flavour the boy’s blood has to give.

Around them the armoury grows colder and colder, but the blood keeps Theon so warm that he pays it no mind.

Then he is tugged roughly back, his feet actually leaving the ground as he is flung across the armoury by another furious child. His head is spinning from the taste of Jon’s blood and he can barely find his feet again.

Robb catches his brother’s body. He lifts him easily and carries him from the armoury, screaming for his father. 

The room is coated with thick frost.

*

“Something has to be done,” Catelyn says to her husband. She keeps her voice quiet, hoping that little Sansa does not hear. She probably would not understand, but she is old enough to parrot back the things she has heard, which could be troublesome. 

“Nothing needs to be done,” Ned tells her, turning a page in his book. He does not even look at her when he speaks. “Let them be.”

“But Robb rarely leaves his side. It’s an unnatural attachment.”

“They’re _children_ , Cat. I’d rather they were close than fighting.”

“Robb is to be a lord. Snow is mortal and a bastard on top of it.”

Ned closes his book. He glances around before he speaks, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Jon is my sister’s blood. You forget that. I’m glad if it makes our deceit easier, but he is more than what we say he is. He has the blood of my House and the blood of lost royalty. We may raise him as a bastard, but I cannot forget that he is much more than that.”

“People are beginning to talk,” Cat points out. “It suggests a breakdown in hierarchy in our home. The mortal servants think it’s adorable. They think you’re being soft.”

But Ned only smiles. “If my enemies think me soft they’ll be in for a sharp surprise, won’t they?” He puts his book aside and walks over to her, stepping around Sansa and the doll that Catelyn crafted for her. He sits beside his wife and puts one arm around her shoulders, his hand resting on her pregnant belly. Perhaps it will be another son this time. Cat adores Sansa and little Arya, but she wants so badly to give Ned another boy. “Now is the time for softness, Cat. While they are young. Robb is strong, we both know that. One day he will rule Winterfell. But for now he shows his strength by guarding his weaker brother. That incident with Theon… it may have been long ago now, but it frightened Robb beyond measure.”

“He still doesn’t like to see others feed from him,” Catelyn murmurs, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder. “Only the other day he asked me if I would not rather feed from a maid.”

Ned chuckles. “Aye, I’ve had that too. But he still feeds from him quite happily, so I doubt we’ve anything to worry about. He’ll grow out of it. It isn’t unheard of for children to grow an attachment to their favourite source of blood.”

“Perhaps not. As you said though, Jon Snow is more than just another bastard. We don’t know what’s in his blood.”

“Cat, we’d have noticed by now if there were something wrong. Robb’s been feeding from him a few years now and you’ve been tasting him even longer. He’s fine.”

“And the snowfall?” 

At that, her husband falls quiet. Maester Luwin has still found no explanation for the boy’s strange power. He asked for permission to write to some other knowledgeable maesters, but Ned refused. He fears people learning more about Jon Snow, lest they realise his true lineage. Not that any Targaryen in history controlled snow and ice.

“It causes no harm,” he says eventually. “A little trick, nothing more.”

“I think it responds to his mood,” Catelyn suggests. A breeze picks up when she admonishes him for bad behaviour. The room chills when Robb bites him. “And what of the dreams?”

Ned shakes his head and stands from her side. He starts to pace the floor. “We can’t be sure that’s a legitimate concern. It could be mere coincidence.”

“Robb tells me they carry on playing after they go to sleep. I’ve tested them, Ned. Asked each of them questions before they could possibly confer and their answers are always the same.”

“That doesn’t mean—“

“He’s cursed!” Cat cries out. Sansa drops her doll and stares up at her mother with wide eyes. Ashamed of her outburst, Catelyn beckons her daughter up onto her lap and gives her a cuddle.

“Who’s cursed, mama?” Sansa asks.

“No one,” Ned says, voice sharper than it needs to be. Sansa ducks deeper into her mother’s embrace. “I won’t hear any more talk like this, Cat. You have to trust me to know what’s best for my House. Jon is a good boy, sweet and kind. His powers mystify him as much as anyone else. What are they in face of our own power? What use is a mild snowfall or communication through dreams against the commanding power of my voice or my strength? Even Robb is stronger than vampires twice his age. How can you fear a child when your true face is more terrifying than—“

“How dare you!” Catelyn feels as though she has been slapped. She is not naïve. She knows how frightening the true face of House Tully can be. She has spent many prayers thanking the Seven for not giving her as frightening a visage as her sister and for making it possible for them to hide their monstrous appearance underneath beautiful faces. When Robb and Sansa were born she saw the red hair and panicked that they might inherit that power from her too. So far they have not shown it, but she cannot rest easy until they are fully grown and developed. Some powers do not blossom until the verge of adulthood.

Immediately her husband looks contrite. “You know I love every aspect of you.”

Cat ushers Sansa off of her lap and takes her hand to lead her to bed. As they reach the door she turns back to Ned.

“I know you don’t love my judgement. That boy will ruin us.”

Ned’s sigh follows her down the hallway.

*

“Everyone’s talking to Robb a lot lately,” Jon says, frowning at his book in the library like a little maester, chin resting on his hand at the oak desk.

Ned pulls up the chair next to him and sits down. “Yes, I’ve noticed that. Does it bother you?”

“No,” Jon says with a heavy sigh that suggests otherwise. “But he’s so busy talking to people he has no time to play with me. Lady Catelyn said this is how it’s to be.” He pushes his book aside and stares mournfully up at Ned with his dark grey eyes. “Is that true? Will Robb not play with me anymore now?”

“He isn’t a lord yet,” Ned reminds his ‘son’. “Gods be good he won’t be for a while yet.”

“Gods be good,” Jon echoes solemnly. As they age, Jon seems to grow ever more pensive and withdrawn, laughing only when playing with his siblings. Robb continues to be the lively soul of Winterfell. When the two are together their mischief is the bane of the castle.

“I’m sure Robb has just been distracted. He’s experiencing some new…” Ned finds himself struggling to articulate the idea and has to start over. “Vampires undergo certain changes as they age. I think Robb’s sudden interest in society is an urge of the blood, pushing him on to test himself. Strength in the training yard is only one part of being a Stark. The rest is…”

“The voice?” Jon asks.

“Maybe the voice, though I haven’t noticed him using that gift.” Ned contemplates his family history for a moment, thinking of the gifts that his siblings and ancestors possessed. “My voice is an unusual talent in House Stark. A dangerous one, in truth. A man must hold onto his honour if he is to control the minds of others.”

“Your voice is stronger than Lady Catelyn’s power. I mean the one where she makes people like her, not the…” Jon waves a hand towards his nose. “…face.”

“There are two ways to command a mortal,” Ned explains to him. “Both have their merits. I can do what my wife does, enrapture an audience to make sure they hang on my every word. Or I can instruct someone to go fight, cook or clean and I will know they cannot argue. One method coaxes, the other forces. I find as the Lord of Winterfell that it suits my station better to command. But only if I must. It is better to know the limits of loyalty amongst your men.” In truth, those abilities have always made him uncomfortable. 

“I don’t think Robb’s commanding people,” Jon says, just before the door to the library is thrown open. Cat strides in, dragging Robb along. 

She thrusts him into the room ahead of her. “My lord,” she says, her tone of voice suggesting she is a thread’s breadth from rage. “I’m happy to manage Sansa, Arya and Bran with little to no help from out maids, but your heir has me at my wit’s end.”

“Oh?” Ned stands from his seat and goes to join her. Robb does not look contrite. He is trying to appear guilty, but is unable to rid himself of a smirk he has learned from Theon Greyjoy. “What has he done?”

“He fancies himself a little king in the hall,” Catelyn tells him, eyeing their eldest coolly. “Holding court, making promises he cannot hope to keep and gathering more gossip than a washerwoman in Wintertown.” She turns her eye on Ned then. “Your steward needs more practise in resisting a vampire’s thrall. Like everyone else down there he spilled everything he knew about everything. I pulled Robb away when Poole began to speak of his courtly passions for certain women in the castle.”

Ned put a hand to his eyes. Why would the gods give such a gift to one so young? “Leave him with me. We’ll have a chat.”

After Cat has left, Jon tsks at his brother. “A man must hold onto his honour if he is to command the minds of others,” he says, parroting Ned’s words in a wise voice.

Robb sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Stop that!” Ned admonishes. “Don’t you remember the last time you caught your tongue on your fang?” There had been blood everywhere. “Now what is this I’m hearing of your antics in the hall?”

“Ugh, it’s not my fault,” Robb whines. “They all just wanted to tell me things. Just the mortals, though. I tried to make mother leave me alone and she wouldn’t, so I know it’s not working on her.”

He has to laugh at that. “It will be a while before your power can stand up to your mother’s.” Though perhaps not as long as it ought to be. Ned did not manifest his psychic powers until very late on. Cat had hers younger, but not this young. Robb has not even seen his ninth name day yet.

“It’s really good though!” Robb says, glee at his newfound ability outweighing any guilt about its misuse. He tugs at his father’s sleeve and tiptoes up to speak in his ear. Ned crouches down to meet him halfway. “Look, they don’t even notice when I do it!”

Jon does not look up from his book as his brother walks over. 

“What book are you reading, Jon?” There is nothing amiss in Robb’s voice. It is friendly, nothing more. To a mortal, anyway. Ned can feel a strangeness in the air.

“It’s about a Prince from Dorne,” Jon replies. “I’ll read some to you later if you like. Some of the words are a bit big though. I don’t know what they all mean.”

“Could you read it to me now?” Robb asks. Not impatient or aggressive, just a simple question. Ned decides he dislikes this use of Jon as a display of power and steps forward to tell Robb to stop it.

“No.”

The blunt refusal surprises Ned and judging from the look on Robb’s face, it surprises him too. But the young heir is not so easily dissuaded. “Please,” he says. Again Ned feels the power in the air. 

But Jon huffs and shuts the book. “Robb, if you’re going to be pushy and try to use your gifts on me, then I’m not going to read to you at all. That will be a lesson.” He folds his arms and stares his brother down.

Robb turns to his father, confused. “It’s not working. It worked on everyone else. Why isn’t it working?”

“I don’t know,” Ned says, helpless. He cannot take his eyes off of Jon, whose eyes seem to gleam unnaturally in the candlelight.

“Are you going to apologise?” Jon asks. He often sounds older than his years, but this is different somehow. It is not the voice of an eight-year-old bastard, well-spoken or otherwise. It is something else.

“I’m really sorry,” Robb says hurriedly. “I never meant to upset you and I wasn’t really demanding you read to me, I just wanted to show father my new power and because you’re the only mortal around but I didn’t mean to make you mad or sad and do you forgive me?”

Jon smiles at the torrent of words and pats his brother on the cheek. “Of course I do.”

The Heir of Winterfell breathes a huge sigh of relief and sinks down onto the floor. He leans his head against Jon’s thigh. “Will you still read to me later?”

“Suppose so,” Jon replies, opening up his book again.

Robb smiles at his father, who quickly takes his leave, wondering what manner of power he has just witnessed.

*

“Where’s Jon?”

Theon shrugs at Robb’s question when the boy pokes his head into his chamber. “How should I know?”

“I thought he was playing with Arya but he’s not.”

“Again, how would I know where the bastard is?”

“You shouldn’t call him that,” Robb says with a little frown. “It makes him unhappy.”

“Being alive makes him unhappy,” Theon retorts, then smirks to himself. That was clever.

“Does not.”

“Does too.”

Robb huffs. “It’s almost sunrise. Where could he be? Can you find him for me?”

“Do I look like your servant?” Theon asks.

The heir rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, you’re faster than the servants. That’s why I’m asking. Please?”

“Are you using that power on me?” Theon asks sharply, when he feels the sudden urge to help. Robb is getting better at convincing people to do what he wants. Weaker vampires will soon be helpless against it. Not that Theon counts as weaker, of course.

“No! Why, are you going to help?”

Theon shoves aside the maps he was looking at. The latest drawings of the Iron Islands by some intrepid merchants. Lord and Lady Stark gave them to him for his last name day, when he became fourteen years of age. Ten years a Greyjoy, four years a false Stark.

“Wait here, I’ll go look around.”

He is down the corridor as Robb’s mouth moves to say “Okay”. Theon takes amusement and satisfaction in that. No Stark will ever move as fast as him. This speed proves he is still a Greyjoy.

All around the castle he sprints, checking under tables and round corners and the topmost floors of the towers. The little bastard is nowhere to be seen. It becomes a matter of pride then and Theon triple-checks the castle before going back to Robb with the bad news.

“I can’t find the miserable sod anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Robb asks, dismayed.

“He’s not here. I don’t know where he’s gone, but he’s not in the castle.”

Robb paces back and forth a moment, starting to panic. “But… he must be, where else would he go?” Without waiting for an answer he bites at his nails and carries on speaking around them. “He’s been acting weird the past few days, but I don’t know why he’d go. We need to find him!”

“Why? He’s mortal, it’s not like he’ll burn up when the sun’s up.” 

“Jon’s never left the castle before,” Robb cries. “He’s not supposed to! Why would he go? I need to tell my father he’s missing, then we’ll sort out a search party.”

“There’s no time,” Theon points out. “Sun’ll be up soon. You’ll have to wait until night falls again.”

But Robb only glares at him and goes running off to find his father. Theon goes to the window and looks out over the North, at the snow-covered trees that sprawl around. Snow has been acting strange the past few days, that much was true. He had eaten little and spoken less, not responding to any of Theon’s taunts. His fights in the training yard had been pitiful. It had been like he was half-asleep. Theon had noticed Lord Stark’s concerned looks in his bastard’s direction but it seems like nobody had taken the time to actually find out what was wrong. Now he is gone.

The sun will be rising soon. Even if Robb and his lord father leave now they will not reach as far as the forest before the light is upon them. These Starks are so sluggish.

Theon thinks back to a weeping black-haired child pinned to the wall, throat bared and bloody. He remembers Robb’s rage and Lord Stark’s disappointment.

He knows what he has to do.

Cold does not bother their kind but the chill in the air is still on the sharp side of refreshing as Theon bolts across the castle grounds. He curses himself all the while for being such a stupid bleeding heart. What if he has misjudged? What if he is not as fast as he thinks he is? What if Jon Snow made it further than the forest?

With a huff of laughter at himself he dismisses his doubts. Of _course_ he is as fast as he thinks he is. Maybe he is faster, who knows?

The moon and stars lend their glow to the snow, illuminating everything in a sort of twilight stillness. It is a surprise more undead have not set up residence this far north, but then food is scarce. What is good for vampires is not usually good for mortals, after all. Trees whip Theon’s arms, legs and face, but he barely notices them. He is ironborn. It takes more than twigs to slow him down when he is hunting.

And it _is_ hunting. The Starks feed from Jon enough that Theon would know the bastard’s scent anywhere. He catches a whiff of it soon after he enters the forest and it becomes simply a case of following the trail. It is not strong, which is a mixed blessing. It means he is not badly hurt, but it is also harder to track. Greyjoys do not have the keen senses that some other Houses possess. They tend not to need them. They eat whoever they find. 

A howl in the distance makes Theon hesitate. Wolves. But perhaps that is a clue. Perhaps they are howling to signal they have found some prey in the form of a snivelling bastard boy. Theon hurtles in that direction as fast as his legs will carry him. Sun will be up soon. He can feel it coming, as a mortal feels their doom in the crumbling sound of masonry or the metallic ring of a blade being unsheathed.

He finds Jon Snow laying in a clearing, head resting back against the trunk of a tree. He is bleeding more than Theon expected, all of it seemingly from the gash on his forehead. It drips down his nose in a crimson river that makes Theon salivate. He is also surrounded by a pack of wolves. When Theon steps on a twig, Jon looks up with wide unfocused eyes as the wolves growl.

“Theon look,” he says, voice drowsy. “Wolves.”

“So I see. Do you think you can get up that tree before they eat you?” Theon has not brought his bow. Damn it, why did he not think to bring his bow?

“They won’t eat me,” Jon says, still sounding like someone in a dream. “They’re my new friends. Though if I must play favourites, I like this one best.”

The snow under Jon’s left hand shifts and for a moment Theon’s mind cannot make sense of what his eyes are telling him. Then he realises that it is a wolf so white that it blends into the snow.

“We need to go, Jon.”

“I call him Ghost,” Jon murmurs, running his hand through the fur. It is then that Theon realises none of the wolves are moving to attack Jon. In fact, they all seem sedate enough to be sleeping. After their initial warning growl to Theon, they have stayed curled up all around Jon. Around and upon him like… like they are keeping him warm.

“How are you doing that?” Theon asks, unable to believe it. Could it be possible that Jon has inherited some Stark gifts after all? Lord Stark shows an enviable kinship with any animals he encounters while little Arya seems to understand the cats, dogs and horses of Winterfell better than she does the people.

Jon sighs. Unlike Theon, his breath makes a cloud of steam in the cold air. “I fell, I think,” he mumbles. “I was looking for something. Or someone. Somewhere? It was in a dream but my dreams aren’t just dreams so I thought I could find it. Them. I don’t know.”

“Robb’s been worried sick about you. You need to come back with me. Shoo those wolves off and come on!”

“Where’s Robb?” Jon asks. He looks around Theon as if expecting to see him.

“Shoo the fucking wolves and I’ll take you to him. Come on! Or do you want me to burn in the sunrise?!” As soon as he has asked, Theon wishes he had not. He and Jon have never been firm friends and he dreads an honest answer.

“I need to get up now,” Jon tells the smelly animals curled up all around him. “Theon is taking me home to Robb and father and Arya and Bran and Sansa and I suppose Lady Stark too.”

“Jon!” Theon growls. He can feel his skin prickling. The sun is rising. The bastard’s going to get him killed. He could run without him, but… he dare not go back empty-handed. He can imagine the disappointment on Robb’s face and the despair of Lord Stark. If he goes back with Jon, he will be a hero.

“Okay, okay…” Jon ushers the wolves off and they all move without so much as a snarl. It is phenomenal but Theon can spare little time to be amazed. Jon stands…

…and swoons like a maid. Theon catches him with a curse and lifts him up. The wolves snap at his ankles, going mad all around him. One of them snags his leg with a fang. He boots it angrily, then flees faster than they can give chase. Not as fast as he had been when he ran out here though. The cut on his leg is giving him grief, sending a shooting pain through his shin whenever he puts his right foot to the ground. Jon’s weight is slight, but it is still a hindrance.

When they leave the cover of the trees, Theon’s skin begins to smoke. Terror hits him like a fist in the stomach, making him want to retch. He keeps running. Winterfell is in sight. 

As his feet thump the ground and his leg screams with pain, his mind recalls all of the stories he has heard about the ones who burn. They had some daylight survivors on the Iron Islands, scarred monstrosities. Sailing holds great perils for their kind. The wrong wind, flimsy cover, before you know it you are bathing in sunshine. Some dove deep into the seas to hide from the beams, walking back to shore with salt scouring their seared flesh. 

Theon can feel it now stinging his cheeks, little salt rivers running down from his eyes across skin that burns. Fuck, he is burning. He is actually burning.

He never thought he would actually burn.

Winterfell is suddenly in front of him, a commotion all around him that he cannot see through his blurred vision. Everything goes dark. He is wrapped up in something dark. He sobs into the fabric until he passes out.

Waking does not feel much better. He glances down at his arms and immediately closes his eyes. Even that hurts. 

“He’s awake. Theon?”

“Lord Stark?” he croaks. He sounds rougher than Old Nan.

“It was a brave thing you did. Incredibly brave.”

“Thank you for saving Jon!” Robb sounds tearful. “Thank you so, so much. You didn’t have to run out there but I’m so glad you did. It was the bravest thing I ever saw!”

“Go let Maester Luwin know he’s awake, Robb.”

Theon hears Robb’s footsteps rush from the room. “It was stupid,” he confesses. “I didn’t save him. He… he controlled the wolves somehow. He’d have been fine. I just burned up for nothing.” Just to impress them. So stupid. He does not even like the bastard.

“The wound on his head was deep,” Lord Stark says. “Maester Luwin suspects he might have been lost to us if he hadn’t been found quickly. You saved my son’s life, Theon. And risked your own to do so.”

“Robb wanted him found.”

“We all did. And we have you to thank.” Lord Stark pats his chest, where the leathers had protected him from the sun’s vicious bite. “Rest now. Maester Luwin will be along soon.”

He drifts in and out of sleep after Lord Stark is gone. He must have missed Maester Luwin, as when he next hears the door it is Jon Snow that enters the chamber. No sign of a wound on his forehead now. Robb or Lord Stark must have offered their blood to heal him. A shame that does not work for wounded vampires.

“Gods, Theon…” the boy whispers when he sees the damage. He approaches the bed carefully, as though Theon is a monster that might rise and devour him. The temptation is almost irresistible. Were it not for the excruciating pain movement brings, Theon might already be fangs deep in the boy. “You shouldn’t have done this for me.”

“No one else could,” Theon croaks. No one else in Winterfell would have made it back in time. Of course, they could have sent a human search party.

The sudden realisation makes him bark with bitter laughter. It was all for nothing. He is such a damn fool. Maybe these scars are exactly what he deserves.

Jon backed away when he laughed, but he comes closer again. “I think… I might be able to help.”

“How? By burning the chamber down so nobody has to see what a sorry mess I’ve made of my dashing rescue?”

Frowning, the bastard shakes his head. “No. Here.” He rolls up his sleeve and puts his wrist to Theon’s mouth. “Feed. They’ve been giving you servant blood, but I think—“ He gasps as Theon sinks his fangs in.

God, the boy still tastes as delicious as Theon remembers. He has wondered since the last time he fed from Jon Snow if maybe he had embellished the flavour in his mind. He had not. He tastes better than anyone Theon has ever fed from. It cools his sore throat and fogs his pain.

Too soon Jon snatches his wrist back and cradles it to his chest. If Theon had been his usual self he might have been quick enough to snatch it back, but as it is he has to make do with what he was given. Jon smiles weakly at him. “How do you feel?”

“…Better,” Theon answers with no small amount of confusion. He lifts his hands and watches in amazement as the burnt flesh slowly flakes away to reveal fresh, healthy (albeit dead) skin. At its current speed it will take time for all of his scars to heal, but for the first time he is confident that they will.

He stares at the bastard in shock. “What _are_ you?”

“I don’t know,” Jon whispers, before fleeing the chamber.

*

Catelyn stirs in the night and reaches for her husband. She is weary from their attempts at making another child, but still she would sleep better curled around Ned’s reassuring coldness. She cannot find him and sleep drifts further away as she opens her eyes. 

He is at his desk in the corner, looking over papers in the dark as heavy curtains keep their room from the burning sun. Whatever holds his attention at this hour, it cannot compare to Cat’s charms. 

“Whatever it is, leave it and come to bed, love.”

The purr of her voice draws his gaze and the sensual stretch of her body makes him lick his lips. She will never worry about losing his lust. Ned is so sincere in his passion that she would know immediately if he grew tired of her. He insists he never could, though. She believes him.

But though he stands from his chair, he dawdles to look again at his papers. With a sigh, Catelyn pushes back the soft blankets and leaves the bed naked to be at his side. The papers are not what she expected, not written requests for aid or letters regarding political matters. They are paintings, vivid pieces of art in red and black with occasional lines of blue. Childlike in style yet… somehow disturbing on a level she cannot understand. 

“Ned, what are these?”

“Maester Luwin brought them to me. Apparently Jon has been creating such things since he was allowed paints and spare scrolls to work on. The Maester amassed this collection before growing concerned.”

She can tell from her husband’s voice that he would have liked to know much sooner. She is not entirely sure what difference it would have made. Ned watches Jon Snow constantly for oddities , yet when he sees them he dismisses them as insignificant. She does not know what it will take to convince him the boy is a danger. It frightens her to contemplate it and these unsettling images do little to calm her.

“Does the Maester only possess red and black paint?”

“No. Besides, there is this flower.” He holds up a blue painting that Cat would not have known was a flower without explanation. Ned sets it back down again and murmurs, “Lyanna loved blue flowers.”

“A coincidence,” Catelyn said firmly. “Or some influence from around the castle. Your sister is still much loved, though it has been ten years since she graced Winterfell with her beauty. Clearly Jon has seen the flowers that commemorate her.”

“And what of this?” Ned asks, sliding a painting towards her.

He does not explain this one and Cat squints at the attempt at art, trying to divine meaning. “It’s a dragon. And two people.”

“Two children,” Ned agrees. “I asked Jon where he heard of them and he said that he plays with them in his dreams when he can’t find Robb. He says he looks for them sometimes when he’s awake, because he forgets that they aren’t here. I think they’re the ones he looks for when he wanders.” It has become a castle ritual to check Jon is inside an hour before sunrise and to ensure he is not in one of his confused moods. The odd trancelike states come and go, but seem to happen less as he ages.

“Do they have names?” Catelyn asks, vaguely amused by the eccentricity of the boy. Her own son is sound of mind. The same cannot be said of the Bastard of Winterfell.

Her husband is not so amused. In fact he is gravely serious when he responds.

“He calls them Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys. Of House Targaryen.”

*

Mother is with child again. Robb is not as excited as he was before Arya and Bran were born. He has seen it all before now. He has two brothers and two sisters, so really another baby could be a boy or a girl and it would not matter.

What does matter is keeping the little ones occupied while mother is weary. It would not be good for the baby to keep her on her feet all the time. She needs to conserve the power of her blood for the birth, which might have started earlier. Robb is not entirely certain. Lots of maids were running around and his father sent his children outside to play.

First they take Sansa, Arya and Bran on little rides around the castle walls. At first Jon holds Arya’s pony and Robb holds Bran’s, but they soon have to swap over due to Arya’s wild riding. Jon simply is not strong enough to keep the pony in check. For Robb it requires barely any effort at all, simply some calling on the strength of his blood. He can already tell Arya is going to be a strong one. Not only does she demand to fight like a boy, but she can convince the little pony to thrash like a beast. Given that Jon held the reins and he is beloved by all animals, that is no mean feat.

After their ride Jon helps Bran break his fast with a nip on his wrist. It makes Robb hungry to watch. Sansa averts her eyes like a lady while Arya licks her lips, but they will have to wait their turn. To feed from Jon too much would make him ill and just the thought of being responsible for that makes _Robb_ feel ill.

“Why do you taste better?” Bran asks as he wipes his mouth clean.

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t,” Jon says, dismissing the idea easily.

“You do,” Arya pipes up. “You taste different from all of the servants. Is it because you’re almost a vampire but not?”

“Arya!” Sansa hisses, scandalised. “Don’t be so cruel!”

“It’s alright.” Jon’s smile is soft. “It’s true that I’m not one of you.”

“That’s not what anyone said,” Robb snaps. “You’re not a vampire, true. You’re still one of us though.”

“The wolves wouldn’t like you otherwise,” Arya points out. The animals slink around near the castle walls, avoiding the horses as they should. Jon says they are the same pack that warmed him when he was lost in the snow a couple of years before. They intimidate everyone but the Stark family, who are frequently nuzzled by the affectionate beasts.

“And your cold powers. Our House words are ‘winter is coming’ and you make cold weather! You couldn’t be any more Stark than that.” 

Robb’s reassurance brought another smile to his brother’s lips. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

Jon has long felt like a stranger in their family, despite Robb’s constant efforts to remind him how much they love him. Jon is different, that much is plain, but why does he see it as a bad thing? For Robb, it just makes him even better. Special.

“We should play ‘first blood’ next,” Sansa says, clapping her hands together. “Robb can be the hunter.”

“I don’t like that game.” Jon pouts. “I’m terrible at it.”

Still they all take their places as Robb stands with his face to the stone wall. He closes his eyes and waits patiently. He likes this game, though as his powers grow it becomes a little too easy.

“Ready!” Arya yells. That is the last he will hear of her until the game is over. Their littlest sister is still very little, but she is too sneaky to be believed. Such gifts are unusual to their House, but her ability is so amazing that it has to be an uncommon talent of the blood, rather than learned skill.

Robb waits. He can hear the movement of people around the castle and the occasional whisper of wind, but thankfully it is a rather still day. He hears a foot crunch in the snow and spins around but his family all freeze in place like statues, still too far away to grab. None of them move as he watches, so he turns back to the wall.

Poor Jon has no chance at all. A mortal cannot hope to beat a vampire at a game of the senses. Robb can hear his every step. More importantly, he can smell his brother’s warm skin and the drying wound Bran left on his wrist. It makes his hunger swell, but he is of an age now where he is expected to control his hunger. He feeds at allocated times now, like mother and father.

Paying attention again to the game, Robb hears a barely audible motion and swiftly turns around just in time for Sansa to skid up to him. She huffs with annoyance at his proud grin and goes back to the start. Robb looks around the rest. 

“Arya, you have to run with the others or it isn’t fair. No cheating, now.”

“You’re no fun,” comes the grumble from the nearby woodshed as their little sister slinks out in a sulk. She returns to the starting place, telling everyone about her plan to sneak right around the tower and catch Robb unawares. He turns back, noting how Jon is not far from him. Bran is only four, so unsurprisingly he trails behind.

Robb closes his eyes again and rests his forehead against the cold stone. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and all he can smell is Jon’s blood. It is not well-trained senses that tell him when to turn back, but sheer hunger. As soon as his brother is in reach Robb whirls around and pounces, knocking him to the floor. His fangs are out, but he holds back. Barely. Beneath him Jon’s heart pounds, sending that delicious blood racing around his warm body.

“Aww, Robb always wins,” Arya moans, stomping her feet in the snow.

“I think we should go inside now.” Sansa sounds nervous. “Come on Bran, Arya. Robb, come on.”

He cannot move for hunger. He fed a little when he woke, but with Jon so close he feels starved. He knows he should not feed in such a state, but he cannot make himself move away. Sansa calls again.

“ _Robb_ , get up. Get up or… or I’m calling mother.”

A hand half-heartedly pushing at the snowy ground is the best he can manage. Is it truly his fault, when Jon tastes so good?

“When we get inside,” Jon promises quietly, staring up at him with barely any fear at all. 

Robb shoves himself to his feet and pulls Jon up after him. Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. She is strangely refined in her appetites for one so young.

As they head back inside, Arya tugs at Jon’s arm and asks for a nip. Robb clenches his jaw so tight that his fangs graze the inside of his lower lip. He has not liked others feeding from Jon for as long as he can remember. He knows his family are just as entitled to his brother’s blood as him, but when he hungers like this it is torture to see that blood given away elsewhere.

“You will have to ask a maid. Robb has begged me for dinner and I can’t feed both of you. You eat like a boy twice your size!”

Arya gasps and denies it, but Jon is not far from the truth. She has a ferocious appetite for one so young, the opposite of their other sister.

“But Robb _always_ gets you for dinner. We only get you for snacks or breaking our fast. It’s not _fair_.”

“Not fair?” Jon asks, looking amused. He takes Arya’s pale, skinny arm and holds it up. “And when do I get to nibble on my siblings?” He makes a show of pretending to gnaw at Arya’s arm in the fashion she tends to feed on him. Their little sister squeals, tugs her arm away and runs down the corridor. She almost collides with their father, who beams at them all and does not admonish her for running.

“Rickon,” their father announces proudly to them all. “Your new brother is called Rickon.”

*

Try as he might, Jon is still panting for breath when he takes a seat on the small wall at the end of the training yard. He wants to hide his exhaustion, but while he needs to breathe it simply is not possible. It is embarrassing to lag behind Robb and Theon so much, but Ser Rodrik assures him he is exceptionally good for a mortal. And really, what else can he ask for? He _is_ mortal. Despite all his strange turns, he breathes and eats and drinks. Theon will always be faster, Robb will always be stronger.

It is their turn to duel now and Jon watches. He is not alone in spectating. Many of the servants and guards bustling around the castle pause in their duties to watch two vampires engage in combat. It serves as a good reminder of why they should not challenge their lords. The nudges that Robb makes to knock Theon off balance could fracture the bones of a mortal man. Theon’s attacks are barely deflected by Robb’s practise blade, but a mortal would have no chance at all. Jon has been on the receiving end of Greyjoy’s duelling and knows the terror of registering a sword’s blur only once it rests at your neck.

Robb wins the first bout, Theon the second. The ironborn grows indignant in defeat, but victory only makes him arrogant. He is intolerable winning or losing.

“Winner gets Jon for dinner!”

That focuses Jon’s attention sharply. “What?”

At Theon’s wager, Robb glances over to his brother. His jaw twitches in the way it does when he is having trouble keeping his fangs sheathed. Though he has been using them for years, their father has warned that there are often a few years during the transition from boy to man where simple bodily functions become more difficult. The control of his fangs seem to be one of those functions.

“Sorry to disappoint, Greyjoy,” Robb snarls, “but you’ll be feeding from the ladies you pay for. Again.” He hefts his sword, ready for another round of combat.

“What?” Jon asks again, certain he has misheard. His brother cannot seriously be agreeing to fight for him, like he is a piece of meat to be won!

“You don’t even know what I pay them for, do you Baby Stark?” Theon taunts as they both circle one another in the snowy yard.

“Company,” Robb replies before making the first lunge. Their swords ring off of one another a few times as Theon deflects and dances back until Robb takes a step back. “You can’t convince a woman to spend time with you for free.”

“Maybe you should join me some time,” Theon grins as he continues to move around, keeping Robb’s guard up and waiting for the opportunity to strike. “You’d learn a thing or two ahead of schedule. It’d be better than whatever lecture your father has planned.”

Jon has no idea what Theon is talking about and from the way Robb falls silent, neither does his brother. The fight continues with more strength and speed, both escalating until Jon starts to feel concerned. He can see the worry begin to grow on Ser Rodrik’s face too. Although they are using practise blades, vampire strength and speed can make a weapon of any hard object.

“Alright lads, that’s enough now,” calls the Master-at-Arms.

But Theon continues to move like a blur and Robb’s fangs keep sliding free as he exerts himself to defend each blow. Eventually Greyjoy knocks Robb back with a surprise sweep that sends Robb’s sword flying from his hands into the snow.

The ironborn laughs, giddy with victory. “About time someone else got a decent meal of that tasty blood.” He lowers his sword to his side. “Alright Snow, get rid of that fur and show me your neck. I’m starving after kicking your brother’s arse.”

“I never agreed to it,” Jon argues sullenly, but his hands are at his fastenings as he speaks. He knows the lords always get what they want and it is pointless to fight. All he can do is express his displeasure and hope they show kindness in their treatment of him. Not that he expects such mercy from Theon. With him it is a case of playing along and hoping he bores quickly.

As he unlaces the string that holds his furs snug around his collar, Theon grabs his arm and lets his sleek, long fangs out. Jon takes a deep breath. He has let Theon feed from him occasionally. Ever since the older boy risked his skin to save his life, Jon has felt obliged to let him take blood. That does not mean he likes how rough he can be. Not to mention he knows that Robb would be livid if he knew Jon had been feeding Theon in secret.

At that thought, Jon hears his brother roar. He cannot recall ever hearing him so wild. Theon is pulled away with such strength that his legs drag uselessly along, leaving a trail in the snow.

Jon feels an odd sense of déjà vu. Strange, as his brother is not known for his poor temper.

“Okay Robb, drop him,” Ser Rodrik instructs.

“Yeah, let me go!” Theon manages to twist free of Robb’s grasp and stumbles upright, shoving at the heir to Winterfell. “You need to learn to share! You lost, so I get to sink my fangs into Jon Snow’s girlish little throat while you stand here and watch him squirm!”

Theon takes a single step back in Jon’s direction before Robb lashes out, fangs bared. One kick is all it takes. Robb lifts a leg and thrusts his boot out at Theon’s middle and it is like he has been hit by a carriage. Greyjoy is knocked clear across the yard, hitting the wall and landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Servants rush to check he is okay, Ser Rodrick starts yelling about proper conduct and lordly behaviour. Robb’s hands shake as he pats Jon down.

“Did he bite you?”

He seems more upset than Jon is. His fangs are still out, shorter and thicker than Theon’s but no less sharp. 

“No, he didn’t. I’m okay, Robb.” Jon takes hold of his brother’s wrists, but that means his hands are just carried along with Robb’s. “Robb, I’m okay.” Jon looks around to see Ser Rodrik has gone to check on Theon. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Jon leads his brother into the castle, holding his hand all the way to their chamber. He pushes the door shut, knowing it will not be long before their father comes looking for an explanation. Robb still grabs for him, upset and anxious for reasons Jon cannot quite understand. He thinks he knows how to calm him though.

“Would you like to feed?” He knows Robb is not supposed to feed outside of allocated times anymore, but truly who does it hurt?

Robb nods and sits down on the bed. Jon joins him and exposes his neck to his brother’s fangs. It does not hurt when Robb slides the points home. It feels familiar, a twinge of pain that Jon does not mind if it means sustaining his brother. Robb does not seem hungry, suckling lazily at the wound for comfort more than anything. His arms are wrapped tightly around Jon’s middle, but not uncomfortably so. Jon strokes a hand gently over his brother’s hair, enjoying the strange pull in his neck where his blood is drawn from him.

When Robb has had his fill, he sits back and presses a thumb to his fang until blood wells up on the digit. He smudges it over the mark he has made on Jon’s neck.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. Just helping it heal.”

“Thanks.” Jon smiles at his brother then they both crawl to lay down on the bed. They share this chamber. Although they have separate beds, they always end up tucked in together, unless they are annoyed with each other. It is too much fun to talk into the day and play games and tell stories. It cannot happen for much longer though. Robb is going to be Lord of Winterfell one day and lords do not cuddle with their brothers to sleep. They marry vampire ladies and cuddle them instead.

“You do taste different, you know,” Robb says. His words brush over Jon’s neck where the blood is healing him. It is like tingling and burning all at once, but Robb’s cool breath makes it feel better.

“My mother must have been a strange vampire.”

“But then _you’d_ be a vampire and you’re not. You’re too warm.”

“And slow and weak.”

“You’re great,” Robb says firmly. “That’s why Theon isn’t allowed to eat you.”

“Do you think he’s okay?” 

It is not meant to blame Robb for what he did, but his brother hears it that way and whines, “I didn’t mean to. I just lost my temper because he was being so horrible.”

“It’s not like you to lose your temper.” Robb is normally the friendly and happy one of them. Jon is the one people call irritable, though he knows better than to snap or attack. He prefers to hide away when everyone is being annoying.

“I know, I know.” Robb turns and pushes his face down into the pillow so that when he speaks again, Jon barely hears him. “Father’s going to be furious.”

Jon pats him on the back. “I’ll say you were protecting me.”

Robb pushes up on his elbows and looks down at him. “I was protecting you. Theon’s not allowed to bite you.”

“What, I’m only yours?” Jon asks, laughing at how greedy his brother can be.

His brother flops back down onto the bed.

“If I can ever get my way, yes.”

*

Ned has dreaded this moment for years. He had denied it would come to pass, but in his heart he had always known himself for a noble man who would do his duty for the sake of his family. For the sake of raising them well. 

So far, the talk is going acceptably. Robb listens well, a serious look on his youthful face. They do not have many more years before that face will mature into the visage he will wear for the rest of his immortality.

“And that is how a lord beds his lady.”

There is silence for some time as Robb digests this. The boy looks around the room with a pensive expression.

“Do you have questions, Robb?”

The boy nods, lips pursed. “What if his lady is not a lady?”

A startling question that gives Ned pause. What has Greyjoy been teaching his boys? Theon’s habits are the reason that Ned is needing to do this now, rather than waiting a few more years. There are only so many times the boys can hear of whores and wanton women before they begin to form poor impressions of love and lust.

“Usually lords are frowned upon for bedding a common woman. You would be happier with a vampire lady, Robb. Trust me. I couldn’t imagine loving anyone but your mother.”

“You must have to make Jon, though. Didn’t you love Jon’s mother?”

These questions are precisely the reason that Robb is the first to receive this lesson. Ned knows Jon will ask such troubling, personal things that Ned will be unable to answer. It would not be safe for him to know. There is no reason for Robb to know anything on the subject either.

“Haven’t I just told you? I have never lain with a woman that compared to your mother.”

Robb shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’m glad Jon is here. But that’s why I asked my question. What if the lady isn’t a lady? I don’t mean a common wench—“

He has that word from Greyjoy, Ned suspects.

“—I mean another boy. How is it done then?”

At first Ned can only stare. Robb stares back at him, innocently awaiting an answer with no idea how improper he has just been. Ned can only wish he had possessed the forethought to bring Maester Luwin to the talk. He has never seen the maester lost for words.

“Well…that is usually not done.”

The simplest response, but it brings a scowl to his son’s face. “But that’s not fair!” Robb cries out. “I want to.”

“You simply haven’t met the right lady yet.”

“But I don’t want to meet a right lady,” his heir sulks. “I want to cuddle and have that feeling you described with Jon. Why can’t I? Is it because he’s a bastard?”

“No, his birth has nothing to do with it.” Ned drags the chair closer to the bed where Robb sits and sits down. “You could not make an heir with Jon.”

“There are loads of heirs,” Robb points out. “And barring accident, we’ll all live forever anyway.”

“Jon won’t,” Ned says gently, though even as he speaks he is trying to recall a Targaryen that died of age, but failing.

Robb’s face falls. He stares at his father utterly stricken, then jumps up from the bed. “We have to turn him!”

Ned grabs his son’s arm tightly before Robb can flee the room to bite his brother. “We have years before that’s necessary.” Plenty of time for Ned to figure out how to broach the subject of Jon’s true heritage. “What we’re speaking of now is _your_ future. It is the duty of the eldest heir to marry well and produce at least one child. Me and your mother may be immortal in a sense, but everything ends. Just as I lost my father, so too will you lose me one day. When that time comes, you will need a son to tell this to.”

Robb huffs and drops his arms to his sides with a scowl. Cat assures Ned that their son is simply going through some changes and such sullen behaviour will soon pass. As far as Ned is concerned it cannot pass soon enough. He is not sure which bothers him more, Robb’s growing rudeness and disobedience, or Jon’s sullen withdrawal. But then, was he not the same at their age? It had felt like all the world was waiting, but responsibilities and decorum trapped him in castles, learning lessons from old maesters. Now he would do anything to go back to that time.

“Can’t I just make a son by laying with a vampire lady, but the rest of the time lay with Jon?”

Gods, but this is exasperating. Ned pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to recall if his children might have ever witness such depraved behaviour from guests or servants.

“What you speak of is a consort. Occasionally vampires are known to keep companions for pleasure alone, but it’s a demeaning position. You wouldn’t wish that on your brother, would you?”

“I’d _ask_ him.”

Ned shifts his grip to Robb’s shoulder, coaxing his son to meeting his gaze. “Robb, this talk I’m giving you is so that when desire starts to present itself, you understand it. You don’t know desire yet. When you do, you’ll realise that this talk of bedding Jon is confused and childish. He’s your best friend and your dearest source of sustenance and it’s only natural you would get mixed up in the intimacy of taking his blood. But the hunger for his blood is very different from the hunger you will feel for the lady that you wed.”

Even though Robb nods, it is clear that his son does not quite believe him. Ned does not worry. As his wife has told him, this is a time of great confusion in a young life. With the right guidance, Robb will settle into sense soon enough.

His son wrinkles his nose at a sudden thought.

“Wait, Theon _pays coin_ for that?!”

*

Robb makes his way through the loud room, through the press of warm bodies that only incite his hunger. He soon locates Theon on a loveseat flashing coin to a gang of women who are willing to fake enthusiasm for a cost. He reaches over the brown hair of a woman cuddled into Theon’s side and nudges his friend.

“I’m going home.”

Theon frowns and protests, predictably. He always does when Robb leaves early. “You haven’t even introduced yourself yet! How’d you expect to get your cock wet when you don’t even say ‘hello’?”

Robb shrugs. He has absolutely no interest in bedding any of these women. Honestly, he does not know why he continues to join Theon on these trips to Wintertown. Since Robb had a lecture from his father on bedding and wedding, Greyjoy has taken it upon himself to ‘educate’ him further. So far that has only involved trips to brothels, crass descriptions of the women there, then Robb escaping back early before he can be dragged into a chamber by a desperate whore.

“It’s best if I go. I’m hungry.”

The girls look excited by that. They have an odd fascination with the vampiric habits of their lords. A blonde woman kneeling by Theon’s feet jumps up and clasps her hands around Robb’s arm. She looks even younger than him. “You can feed from me, m’lord!”

She bares her throat to him, almost pushing it against his mouth. He can feel the throb of her veins and it does stir him. He is tempted. 

But better blood awaits him at home.

“No, I really must be going.”

“Why didn’t you feed before you came?” Theon asks, grouchy now that he knows he will be trekking back to Winterfell alone. 

“Didn’t think about it.” A lie. He had thought of little else. He can still see it in his mind’s eye, as vivid as if the scene were in front of him. Sansa’s delicate _“Would you mind, Jon?”_ and their brother’s dutiful _“Not at all.”_ The pair of them stepping into an empty chamber and pushing the door closed because Sansa fancies herself above things like visibly feeding. Robb cannot remember a word she said to him afterwards, only able to think of the blood on her breath. Jon’s blood.

Theon scowls. “Oh fine, scurry back to your bastard blood. These girls could satisfy two needs instead of one, though!”

“Then I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”

Robb nods politely to the disappointed women and makes his way out into the snowy night. At first, the attention from the women had been deeply gratifying, but Robb soon came to remember his father’s wisdom. These women do not care for him. They care for his coin and for the opportunity to sully his good name. Still, Robb feels for them. In their position they cannot afford to care for anything else.

He rides back to Winterfell alone, knowing that his father disapproves of lone travelling almost as much as he disapproves of brothel visits. Maybe more. It is difficult to imagine a vampire coming to much harm in these woods though, despite tales of rebellious peasants and well-shot arrows to the heart. It is well known now that Robb is about as strong as his father and can only get stronger. As a result, his fears are few.

It is late when he returns to Winterfell. The sun is almost rising. Theon will undoubtedly sleep at the whorehouse rather than risk a late trip. Ever since he was burned by the sun, the ironborn has been paranoid about journeys that risk exposure.

Once Robb has given his horse to the stables, he enters the castle and goes to Jon’s cosy chamber. Since they have had separate rooms, Jon has usually slept in Robb’s with him regardless. If Robb is absent for any reason, Jon tends to retreat to his own bed alone. Robb misses him when they sleep apart. The thumping of Jon’s heart helps lull him to sleep.

Jon’s room is small and dark, heavy curtains making it comfortable and safe for vampires. Who knows when a member of the family might need sanctuary in the nearest room? Although the servant areas have to be well lit, Jon navigates in darkness as best as he can. Robb has no difficulty. His vampire eyes are designed for the dark. He can easily see his brother curled up under the blankets, sleeping soundly. Jon has never expressed an interest in following Robb and Theon to the brothel, for which Robb is grateful. He does not relish the thought of women pawing at his brother. Though vampires are renowned for their appearance, Robb believes Jon to be the most stunning member of their house. He is easily the loveliest mortal in the North, if he truly _is_ mortal. He does not taste mortal.

“Jon?”

Robb’s whisper does not stir his brother as he approaches the bed. Fast asleep then. Robb cannot be all that annoyed when he sees how peacefully he rests. Jon had wandered a lot when they were younger, which had given Robb a great reason to sleep nearby. His sleepwalking has not occurred in years now, but still the two of them rest better together.

He strips down to his smallclothes, draping his garments over the chair by the dresser. The room is cold. It does not affect him in any way, but Robb cannot deny a certain pleasure in sliding under the warm furs on the bed. Jon’s body heat has turned the bed into a furnace and Robb is happy to leech that warmth away. For some reason Jon can stand the chill better than most. When Robb wraps strong, cold arms around him, Jon only hums in his sleep and relaxes into the embrace.

Robb nuzzles his brother’s neck, angry when he finds the wound Sansa left behind. Bran and Arya might be too young to clean up after themselves, but Sansa ought to know better. 

_Maybe that’s it though,_ he thinks. _Mother has taught her that a bastard doesn’t deserve the blood of lords and ladies._ Though he is achingly hungry, Robb nips at his finger to bring forth a little blood and massages it gently into the mark on Jon’s neck. Jon makes a sound between a groan and a whimper. 

“Hm? Robb?”

“I’m here.”

Jon twists around to face him, though the searching of his gaze proves he cannot see beyond a murky silhouette. He cuddles closer. “Did you come to feed?” His voice is slowed by sleep.

“Not _specifically_ ,” Robb answers, embarrassed. Blood is not the only reason he visits his brother and he never wants Jon to think it is.

But Jon just chuckles at his attempts at subtlety. “Hungry after your whores?”

“Hey now, I’m not Theon.”

“You’re just training to be Theon,” Jon says, Theon’s name breaking over a yawn.

“I only travel there with him, then I travel back. Why does it make you angry?”

His brother sighs. “You’re better than that. I don’t want people thinking you’re so desperate for company you’d spend coin on it.” He yawns again. “Or blood, for that matter. I’ve told you a dozen times. If you want to feed, I’m here for it.”

It is difficult to get a better invitation than that. “I want to feed,” Robb whispers. 

There is something in the way that Jon bares his neck. Something in the way he welcomes Robb’s fangs. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would offer themselves the way that Jon does. He has done it so often that submission is second nature to him now. Robb feels his manhood start to stir as he runs a finger down the pale length of Jon’s throat. He shifts his hips away from Jon’s body so as not to alert his brother to the situation. When he bites, his fangs pierce Jon’s neck on the opposite side of Sansa’s bite. They slip in smoothly, a satisfying feeling perfected by the mouth-watering shift of Jon’s neck when he sighs. It is barely movement at all, but it feels world-shattering when Robb’s fangs are nestled so snugly into his skin.

“You always reach deeper than the rest,” Jon whispers.

Robb does not know if that is compliment or reproach, but it makes something in his stomach twist all the same. His manhood is thickening, pressing against the furs beneath them as he keeps his hips to the bed. Of course his fangs go deeper. He is the only one of his House to relish this closeness so much, to want to last it out for as long as possible.

He draws his fangs out slowly and blood spills into his mouth, catching on the lips he has fastened so tightly against Jon’s soft throat. It takes only weak suckling to keep the flow going. Robb splays a hand against the warm skin of Jon’s chest, absently stroking up and down as he feeds.

Jon shivers. The juddering movement carries through Robb’s fangs, making him groan with a pleasure that he cannot remember ever feeling before. Jon’s blood continues to wet his tongue, more delicious than any other and as dizzying as it has always been. His brother’s breathing is rapid and shallow, though he lies relaxed in Robb’s arms. Giving without question or complaint. 

When Jon does finally fidget against him, Robb is not prepared to let go. He has hungered for this for too long tonight. He tightens his grip, pulling Jon flush against him and sucking a little harder. Just a little more. He knows he must not take too much, but… just a little more. He cannot help the push of his groin against Jon’s hip. Jon’s blood heightens Robb’s senses so that he can feel every fibre of his smallclothes as they rub against him. He can hear Jon’s shallow, whimpering breaths and the thumping of his heart as the rhythm starts to slow.

Pleasure crashes through him, startling him from his feeding as he presses his face to Jon’s shoulder instead and rides out waves of bliss. He clutches Jon tight to his body, grinding his increasingly slick smallclothes into his brother’s hip. How long it is before he can stop, he does not know. Only that he draws back from Jon with desire rapidly cooling into shame and fear.

First of all he notes the blood he has smeared all over Jon’s neck, shoulder and their furs. Panic takes him. He should not have fed so recklessly. His voice shakes as he calls his brother’s name.

“Jon?”

“I think you took too much,” his brother mumbles. Simply hearing his voice floods Robb with relief. Yes, he has taken too much. It is not the first time Jon has been leeched too thoroughly. Arya is currently banned from Jon’s blood until she can exhibit more self-control and Robb has been subject to such discipline in the past. But if Jon can speak, he is not as badly off as he has been before. 

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Robb slices into his palm with a fang and carefully places the stinging wound over Jon’s injured neck. His blood will speed the healing process, though it will not replace the blood he has consumed. 

“I’ll call a maid to get you a good meal,” Robb promises. Lots of meats and sweet drinks will make Jon feel better.

When he climbs from the bed he winces at the discomfort in his smallclothes. Pulling them back, he can see he has spilled inside them just as he does on the nights that he sleeps alone with a hand on himself.

He does as he said he would and has a fine meal brought to Jon. His brother is fatigued and Robb almost has to feed him half of the meal to make sure it is eaten. Robb is relieved Jon is too tired to speak of what happened, but ashamed of that relief. He does not even know what he will say when Jon inevitably asks about the pleasure Robb took from him.

But Jon says nothing before succumbing to rest that morning. The next night, when he is fragile but awake, he continues to say nothing of Robb’s illicit attention. The silence continues night after night. He does not question Robb’s behaviour or show any discomfort when lying beside him. Eventually, Robb is forced to conclude that his brother does not remember.

Barely getting away with such depravity makes Robb keenly aware of his own desires. There is no confusion, no doubt. He is finally certain of what he wants. But for the first time ever, he is afraid of his own lack of control. 

A part of him also wonders, when he lies beside his slumbering brother, how easy it would be to get away with it once more. 

*

_“I prefer your hair,” says Princess Daenerys as she curls Jon’s black locks around a finger._

_Jon shakes his head, tugging his hair loose from her slender hands. How can Dany say such foolish things when her hair is braided moonlight? “My hair is dull and dark. You and your brother are so…exotic.”_

_Prince Viserys shrugs, uninterested. “We are dragons.”_

_“But our little nephew must be a dragon too or he wouldn’t be here,” says Daenerys Targaryen. Her brother roams around them, pacing. He is always moving, nervous and impatient._

_“His blood is impure,” Viserys snaps._

_“But powerful enough to reach us across the seas.”_

_Viserys opens his mouth to retort, but then the look of derision vanishes from his face. He looks around. “It’s getting colder.”_

_His dragon friends grow concerned, but Jon cannot prevent a smile. “Robb is calling me.”_

_“He is calling your blood,” Dany says, correcting him. “It is all a vampire can truly love.”_

_Jon rolls his eyes. Dany and Viserys hold a burning hatred for the vampire houses. They despise the vampires for killing their brother, Jon’s father. They still believe Rhaegar Targaryen was a great man who would have made a fine ruler. Jon does not argue, but he thinks it would be hard to best Lord Stark for honour and strength._

_“I always forget all of this when I wake,” Jon says sadly. He remembers the sight of Daenerys and Viserys themselves, but never who they are or how they are connected to him._

_“It’s because of your closeness to those monsters,” grumbles Viserys. “You can’t be all things, Jon. They leech the heat from your blood, drunk on it like firewater. You can’t be fire, light and life while walking amongst the dead.”_

_“They aren’t dead in their hearts,” Jon argues. “They’re good, kind and fair.”_

_Daenerys trails her delicate fingers over his throat. He shivers as she grazes the bite there. “This doesn’t seem fair, nephew.”_

_“It doesn’t hurt. It used to, but it doesn’t anymore.”_

_“So docile,” Viserys sneers. “You are not cattle! You are a Targaryen!”_

_“I’m a Snow,” Jon replies, more forcefully than he intended. It still pains him to be surrounded by dragons and vampires yet truly belong to neither group. He holds out a hand and lets ice ghost along his palm, slowly willing it into the shape of a snowflake above his hand. Daenerys and Viserys can craft fire, their lineage showing in masterful displays of dragon-shaped flames. Jon is tainted by cold and death._

_“You aren’t what they say you are,” Daenerys reminds him softly. “It’s a lie. A story that the usurpers have told you to make you a better play-mate for their young. The power is in your blood. They don’t love you, dear nephew. It’s the blood they crave.”_

_Jon knows better, but does not say. How can he explain the feel of Lord Stark’s strong hand on his shoulder, or the thrill of running around the yard with Arya? Viserys and Daenerys do not know of that and would not understand it any more than they could understand the sweetness of Sansa’s smile or the peace of reading Bran a bedtime story. These true Targaryens could never know what it is to relax into Robb’s arms, to trust him with life itself._

_“Speaking of which,” Viserys says, “It grows ever colder.”_

_“Robb is looking for me,” Jon says again. His brother is not inclined to move through dreams, but his mind has grown used to Jon’s trespass. It is as though they have a bond, a link between their spirits that opens up when they sleep._

_“What would happen if you refused to serve him?” Daenerys asks, her fingers still prodding curiously at the bite on Jon’s neck._

_“He would accept it,” Jon tells her. Robb can be greedy occasionally, but never intentionally. As soon as it is pointed out to him he falls over himself to make up for it. He has all the privileges of a first-born heir, tempered by his father’s notions of justice and charity. Robb will make a great lord someday._

_“Oh, I’m sure he would say so,” Daenerys murmurs._

_“They’re gluttons for our blood, Jon,” Viserys continues, still pacing anxiously around them, fearing unseen enemies even here. “After the Kingslayer broke his oath to our father he pressed him down onto the Iron Throne and fell to his knees, lapping up the puddle of blood like a dog.”_

_“How would you know?” Jon asks. He very much doubts the famed Ser Jaime Lannister would lose control like that. “You were an infant.”_

_“We were told!”_

_“And what if it was a lie?” Jon asks, idly twirling a snowflake between his fingers. “A story that the rebels have told you to make you a better figurehead for their vengeance.”_

_Viserys scowls and stomps. Daenerys is more open, her pale violet eyes searching Jon’s face as she considers what he has said. She is of an age with him, or thereabouts. Viserys behaves no older. They tell him little of their travels or their way of life, but Jon knows they have fallen on hard times. He wonders if they dress so beautifully outside of their dreams._

_“It’s too cold,” Viserys barks after a time. He rubs his arms. “It always is when we connect with you. You must break free from the dead. Travel south, find a ship. Join us.”_

_Jon laughs. “With what coin? And what tale would I tell my family?”_

_“We are your family,” Viserys says._

_“Would the vampires let him go?” Daenerys asks quietly. “The rest of our house were drained dry by monsters. The Starks might never let him leave.”_

_“I don’t want to leave,” Jon confesses. “I love Winterfell and House Stark. They’re good to me, though you won’t see it.”_

_“This is all I see,” Daenerys whispers sadly, stroking a finger over the bite mark one more time before drawing her hand away. “A dragon kept as food.”_

_“I’m safe where I am,” Jon reassures her. Looking between the siblings he asks, “Can you say the same?”_

_They do not answer and he wakes in Robb’s cool embrace._

*

The King is visiting and Catelyn has never felt such an honourable burden. Or perhaps that ought to be that she has never felt an honour more burdensome. Except the weight that Ned had dumped on Winterfell, now fourteen years of age. Honour decrees she treat him fairly, but what counts as fair in such circumstances? Letting Jon Snow mingle with the royals might well expose the truth of his lineage. After all, King Robert Baratheon encountered the Targaryens and despised them. His bloodline are well-known for their unnatural senses, who knows what he might notice about the false bastard?

“He resembles Lyanna,” her husband says as he ponders her concerns. “I don’t know if that would damn him in Robert’s eyes or save him from being considered too thoroughly.”

“Perhaps he should leave,” Cat suggests. “Just for the duration of the King’s visit.” No matter how much she might wish for his permanent absence.

“Where could I possibly send him? I don’t have many lords falling over themselves to borrow my bastard son.” He thinks on this for a moment. “I’d be alarmed if I did.”

“What of the Wall? Your brother Benjen could take him in for a time.”

But Ned shakes his head. “Benjen will be joining us here. Besides, I couldn’t do that to Jon. The Wall’s a hard place. Without telling him of his legacy it’d seem like a harsh punishment for an unknown crime.”

“When will you tell him?” Catelyn asks quietly. Years have flown by and the boy is almost a man. His powers have grown, yet remained harmless. In fact, while his capacity for wintery weather has increased, his resistance to _their_ powers seems to have diminished. Perhaps their feeding has made a permanent mark on him somehow. Despite this, Cat still fears him. The Targaryens had the capacity for startling shows of power and no one knows how long it took for those powers to develop. Just as Robb has manifested the majority of his strength in adolescence, so too might Jon Snow.

“Must he be told?” Ned asks, voice equally as hushed. They cannot risk any of the children hearing them speak of this.

“You can’t possibly keep him in the dark forever.”

“It may be safest. These are dangerous days for dragons. I would rather Jon live as my son than die as my sister’s.”

“He must have asked you so many questions. How can you hope to keep deflecting them all?” Jon does not speak often when she is near, but he spends more time with her husband than Robb does.

“Actually he has asked only a few times. Maester Luwin believes he searches out truth in the books of the library.”

Cat huffs a quiet laugh. “Well he won’t find anything. You already checked every volume we own, as well as ones Maester Luwin specifically brought in. There’s never been a creature like him.”

Ned sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Robert won’t let him alone. Love or hate, he won’t let him be once he smells something different. He’s a blood connoisseur. Always has been.”

Catelyn would call it a glutton, but lets her husband’s description stand. “Then we’ll hide him in almost plain sight. Seat him out of the way, down with the guards or Benjen’s boys in black. If we go the visit without acknowledging him he’ll surely slip Robert’s notice.”

“Robb won’t like that.”

“It’s time Robb grew up,” Cat says firmly. “He can’t expect to continue drinking from Jon every night and sharing his bed. It’s ridiculous. I’ve told him so but he ignores me. Perhaps he’ll heed the lesson if it comes from you.”

“I _had_ expected that to stop by now,” her husband admits. “His attachment has grown rather than diminished. We may have to wean him onto a series of servants.”

“Weaning?” Cat raises an eyebrow. “At his age? Just telling him ought to suffice.”

“It ought to,” Ned agrees, “But I fear it won’t. Not unless I use the voice. And perhaps not even then. His power is growing. Faster than I’d expected, in truth.”

“Do you think it could be… Jon’s blood?”

At her question Ned stares off for a moment out of the window, thinking it over as he looks at the moonlight reflecting from snow-covered trees.

“I’ll order him to abstain,” he says eventually. “He’s a good boy. I’m sure he won’t react badly to unexplained instruction.”

*

“Robb, Robb, stop…”

The murmur slowly gathers meaning in his mind and reluctantly, Robb draws his mouth back from Jon’s delectable wrist. His brother grins down at him.

“Gods, you’re insatiable.”

“I have to get my fill,” Robb explains. “They’ll be watching me the rest of the night. I might not even be allowed to share furs with you. Either I take enough to keep me going or I feed from a servant.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought. How any of his family can enjoy feeding on commonfolk when they know Jon’s flavour is beyond him.

“You haven’t fed from a servant in a long time,” Jon observes while idly twisting his hand this way and that, as if to alleviate the ache from Robb’s bite.

He shrugs. “I don’t like them like I like you. Feeding feels…special to me. I don’t want to waste time drinking from some random servant when I could be feeding from you.” Even when supping from Jon’s wrist so as not to leave an obvious mark, Robb feels arousal. He still has not pressed for more than blood from Jon after that accidental time, but he tends to find himself aching after feeding. More and more he is forced to turn away from his brother under their shared furs so that he can touch himself. Jon is too exhausted after feeding to notice, often falling into slumber straight away.

“So draining me dry is a sign of affection?”

It is only a tease, but it chafes. “I’d never drain you dry,” Robb snaps. “Never. No matter how starved I was, how good you taste. You’re my brother and I love you. I’m not a monster.”

Jon looks contrite, squeezing Robb’s shoulder with the hand of his unbitten wrist. “I know that. I was only joking.”

“Well…don’t.” He feels embarrassed for reacting so sharply, but threats to Jon’s safety have always made him foolish. 

“Do you think they’ll notice?” Jon asks, peering at his wrist.

Robb nips his own finger and begins to massage his blood into the neat little holes, but that will only shrink the wound and speed the healing. It will not eradicate the mark by dinnertime. “Wear your longest sleeves.”

Jon nods and stands from the bed, making his way over to the wooden drawers where his clothes are stored. “Your mother wants to inspect my throat before dinner. I don’t think she trusts you.”

Dropping onto Jon’s bed with a sigh, Robb watches as his brother searches for a suitable shirt. Jon’s pale skin glows in the candlelight. What Robb would not give to kiss him on his chest, to love him the way a wife would… “It’s a stupid rule,” he says, wrenching his gaze away from his brother to stare at the plain ceiling instead. “Why shouldn’t I feed from you while the king visits?”

“Because I’m a bastard.”

Jon’s voice is muffled as he pulls a white shirt over his head. He straightens it out then grabs a black tunic to go over it. 

“Why does it matter? I mean, alright, there are some families where bastards are treated as little more than blood flasks…” Robb notices Jon is smirking at him. “Oh come on, you know I love you. You’re more than blood to me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jon smiles at him.

“So given that you’re part of the family, why act as though you aren’t? Your station would be clear from the way I feed on you, so where’s the harm in acknowledging your existence?”

“They want to pretend I’m not here. My life is a slight on our lord father’s honour. You know that. While the king and queen are here it’s important to show how honourable House Stark is. That means not reminding them at every turn about Lord Stark’s one fault.”

It is impossible to ignore the self-loathing in Jon’s voice. It hurts Robb to know that his brother sees himself as little more than a symbol of their father’s mistake. It is not fair and he climbs from the bed to take Jon into his arms.

“If they only met you, they’d realise that House Stark can turn even a mistake into their proudest achievement.”

Jon twists away from him and wipes at his eyes. Robb is not sure if he has made things worse or better.

“You should go to dinner. They’ll want you to walk in with the royal family. Princess Myrcella, I expect. She seems to like you.”

Robb laughs. The pretty girl is still a child, but her shy attention is adorable. “Aye, she does.”

“Off you go then.”

“Will you be alright?”

His brother sighs. He still will not turn back to face him. “Of course I will. Go on. You’ll have a wonderful time and forget all about this pointless worrying.”

There is no reasoning with Jon when he sets his mind to brooding. Robb reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll see you later. Try to enjoy dinner without me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon insists.

After that, Robb takes his leave. He wishes he could be so certain that _he_ can enjoy dinner when the blood is not Jon’s.

*

“You shouldn’t keep staring.”

Jon snaps his attention back to the table upon hearing Uncle Benjen’s admonishment. His uncle has travelled all the way from the Wall to be present for the royal feast. Despite being welcome at the noble table, he has chosen to sit with Jon for a while at the lower table. Jon is overcome by gratitude, even if he expects his uncle will move on before the feast is over. After all, it is only at the noble table where blood is being served. An assortment of comely servants kneel by the seats, donating their blood to sate the hunger of hosts and guests alike. Robb has a brown-haired girl kneeling by his chair. Jon keeps looking up there to see if he is feeding, but so far he has not seen Robb taste her.

“I find it strange to see them make such a spectacle of feeding.”

His family do not normally feed in front of their people. The Starks consider it a private and intimate affair, performed out of necessity. 

“This is how it’s done in the south,” explains Uncle Benjen. “The nobles there like to make a show of their dominance and remind the commonfolk of their place in the hierarchy.”

Although he has been warned not to stare, Jon cannot help himself. King Robert is on his third servant, having drained the first two almost to unconsciousness. Queen Cersei feeds on hers intermittently, but seems more interested in conversation with the Lady Stark. Jon’s family take to the new display surprisingly well and it unsettles him. Arya snatches her servant up every few minutes for a quick nip. Bran and Rickon seem overwhelmed by the freedom of having their own servants for feeding however often they please. Even their father takes an occasional drink from the servant at his feet. Only Robb and Sansa seem at all awkward about the arrangement. 

“Will Robb and Sansa get in trouble if they don’t feed?” Jon asks his uncle.

“It’s not the best show of manners. Could be construed as arrogance, but I’m sure the king would laugh it off. The Lannisters I’m not so sure about.”

“Ser Jaime isn’t there. And Lord Tyrion seems to have gone.”

“The Imp’s said to make his own entertainment. The Kingslayer will be about. He’s kingsguard, after all. He’ll be back when duty demands it. Most like he’s slaking his thirst elsewhere, waiting for his shift to begin.”

Jon had seen the famed Ser Jaime when the party arrived at the gates. He had been as enamoured as everyone else. Now that he is away from him he recognises it as a use of supernatural power, but just the memory of the feeling has him yearning to see the knight again.

Still he watches Robb at the high table. His brother looks restless, sending dark looks towards Prince Joffrey that could be taken badly by the Queen. 

“Robb would be more comfortable if I were in that servant’s place,” Jon says to his uncle. “Could you ask father if I might be one of the kneelers?”

Uncle Benjen _tut_ s, the sound making Jon feel as though he has said something wrong. He is only trying to help, to do the duty that his family need from him. But his uncle shakes his head. “It’s not a good idea, Jon. It’s generally a sign of weakness or eccentricity for a vampire to depend heavily on a particular mortal for their blood. Especially at Robb’s young age. It would be almost like he couldn’t feed without help. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the Lannisters would pounce on such weakness.” His voice lowers to a level that Jon can barely hear over the noise of the hall. “We Starks might be creatures of the night, but the Lannisters are just monsters with mortal faces.”

He can believe it of the Queen, whose cold gaze slides over the people of Winterfell as though she is eyeing a table piled high with uninteresting meals. The Prince seems to despise them all too. The others Jon has not met, though. “Ser Jaime seemed more complex than that.”

A hand strikes the back of his head hard enough that Jon drops his almost-empty cup of wine. He clutches his skull and stares at his uncle in shock. It startled him more than it hurt. It is unusual for Jon to be the recipient of a cuff around the head. Robb and Arya are the most likely to get a sharp reminder of good behaviour. His uncle does not look angry, but his face is a little stern. “Do _not_ go near Jaime Lannister or his sister. They’re dangerous to all mortals. Understand?”

“I only said he seemed complex,” Jon grumbles, rubbing his hand over his head where he was hit. It only sort of hurts, which at least means that Uncle Benjen held back.

“That’s thrall talking,” his uncle snaps. “If you spare a second to concentrate on the feeling, you’d know that.” Jon wants to say he does know it, but that knowing it and feeling it are completely different notions. But his uncle goes on. “You couldn’t be enthralled when you were little, your father ever tell you that? They tried it from time to time and when you were young as eight you were able to resist. You seem to have outgrown your resistance. Or you’ve grown into submission.” He seems saddened by it. “A bastard’s lot in life, I suppose.”

“I’m better treated than most bastards,” Jon points out.

Uncle Benjen pats Jon on the back, a lot softer than he had hit him on the head, and stands from the table. “I’m going to see if they can find me a seat and a servant. I’m famished. You enjoy the feast. Try and stop staring at the table. If your father thought it wise to have you up there, he would.”

Jon watches him go and tries to console himself with the idea that it is Robb’s habits keeping him from the table. Perhaps his father just wants to show that Robb can feed from a servant like everyone else. Maybe it has nothing to do with Jon’s nature as a bastard. Still, if that is the case, why would they not have told him? Or better yet, why not let Jon sit with them with strict instructions to Robb to feed only from the servants provided?

No, it has to be Jon. He is the problem, the shameful secret.

As he turns his head to look up at the table, he catches himself in the act and stops. It is no good. He cannot sit here and pretend to be no part of the Stark family. If they want him to keep a distance, it will need to be a greater distance than this.

Struggling not to cry, Jon gets up and leaves the Great Hall. Nobody tries to stop him and nobody asks where he is going. It only confirms what he is thinking – while the royals are here, no one cares for a bastard.

*

The north is so bloody dull. Not to mention the servants taste like muck. It has been days since Jaime has managed to find a moment alone with his dear sister to taste her blood. Admittedly, he still _needs_ to drink from the commonfolk if he is to avoid madness and blood sickness. That does not change his craving for his vampire sister. It only makes him bitter about every servant he tastes. 

That is why he does not mind so much that he is not serving as guard in the so-called Great Hall of Winterfell tonight. Drinking from bland northerners while his sister is pawed at by Robert Baratheon… He would rather not.

Just as Jaime wanders down the corridors and ponders who he _might_ be willing to feed from in this hellhole, he hears someone throw open the door downstairs. Footsteps stomp up the stairs and Jaime can hear sniffling and a pounding heartbeat, moments before Ned Stark’s bastard rounds the corner. The boy stops when he sees Jaime, startled. Tearful. He must be half-vampire at least, for all that he seems completely mortal. A pleasant dinner, perhaps.

Jaime turns on the charm. Half-vampire bastards are just as pathetic as mortals and just as easily swayed. He possesses a certain curiosity about the boy. Jon Snow, the only known dishonour of House Stark. “What’s wrong?”

“It… it’s nothing, ser. Sorry to disturb you on your walk.” The boy looks to the ground, averting his eyes from his betters as a good bastard should. Jaime would wager it is more to do with his own awe-inspiring power, making the lad embarrassed and insecure. He strides forward and cups the boy’s jaw, tilting his face up to look into his eyes.

“No disturbance, I assure you. Shouldn’t you be dining with your family?”

The boy’s full lips wobble ever so slightly. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “No, I…no. Not while we have company. That wouldn’t be right.”

“Hardly seems fair,” Jaime says gently. That is all it takes to have Jon Snow look at him like a hero. He steps up the thrall nonetheless. “Come on,” he says, pushing open a chamber door. “You come and calm down and tell me all about it.”

Jon follows, as any mortal would. At Jaime’s gesture, he takes a seat at the end of the guest bed and sniffles some more. “I do everything they ask,” he says helplessly, gazing up at Jaime with tear-filled, grey eyes. “But it’ll never be enough, will it? I’m only kept for my blood.”

Just the mention of it makes Jaime ravenous. His power keeps Jon Snow blind to that, though. It keeps him talking, keeps him vulnerable. If this power had worked upon Aerys, life would have been much simpler. “Do you enjoy giving them your blood to drink?”

Not even embarrassment can stop the boy’s shy admission. Not when Jaime’s gifts are in full effect. Jon nods with a blush, but lacks the willpower to look away. “I like feeding Robb. He always makes it feel nice.”

“Does he now?” Jaime strokes his hand through Jon’s unruly dark locks. The boy is pretty in his own way, though not Jaime’s type. Jaime’s type is Cersei. It is as simple as that. Still, there is something to be said for feasting on Eddard Stark’s precious bastard. It sounds as though it might aggravate the brash heir as well, a bonus. “Why is he different from the rest?”

“I don’t know,” Jon murmurs, still looking into Jaime’s eyes. The enthrallment is gaining potency, hypnotising the boy into adoration. “He feeds from me the most. We share furs. We’ve always been close.”

The south prefers blankets to furs, but beyond that the story sounds hilariously familiar. Jaime rubs his thumb over Jon’s lower lip. “Does he fuck you?”

Jon’s eyes widen. His heart pounds with arousal. “No,” he whispers. Jaime’s gifts make it impossible for Jon to be lying, but his body tells more than his voice. 

“You want him to.” Before Jon can say more, Jaime seats himself down at the end of the bed beside him. “I want to taste you, Jon Snow.” These secrets of House Stark are delicious certainly, but he cannot ignore his pangs of hunger much longer. There will be time for more talk afterwards.

Surprisingly, Jon hesitates. His fingers tremble at his collar. “I… I can’t. Robb wouldn’t want…” He falls silent, common sense and family loyalty battling the enticement of Lannister bewitchment. 

Jaime sighs and slides an arm around the boy’s middle. “If Robb wanted you so badly, wouldn’t you be knelt at his table right now? Instead you’re here, with me. I want you _very much_. Be a good boy for me now.”

The enthrallment wins. It always does. With the slightest of frowns, Jon pulls down his collar and bares his neck for Jaime, who wastes no time in leaning in and biting.

All he can taste is Targaryen. Jaime pulls back as if burned. That cannot be right. How can it be that this northern bastard tastes anything like Aerys Targaryen? But Jaime can feel the warmth of the blood down his throat, the fire pooling in his belly. Whoever the boy’s mother was, she possessed a Targaryen connection. 

He has always regretted not bottling the dead king’s blood. It had taken Ned Stark to drag Jaime from the puddle and even after a meagre taste, Jaime was climbing the walls for days.

As Jon asks if all was well, Jaime grabs his hair and sinks his fangs in again roughly. Two bites will bleed better than one. Jon cries out weakly for his brother, but Jaime holds firm. The room grows colder around them, but he pays it no mind. He will not leave a drop behind. Not this time.

*

The girl kneeling by Robb’s feet is trembling. Barely older than him, he suspects. The daughter of one of the guards. She constantly glances up at him nervously. Robb cannot tell if she is scared of his bite or if she is scared that he will _not_ bite. His siblings – aside from Sansa – are all tucking into their servants like they are celebrating their name days. His lord father admonishes them to go easy now and again, but this is more blood in one sitting than they have ever been permitted. Sansa is too uncomfortable about the notion of feeding in front of other people to take advantage of the young man kneeling by her seat. Robb is still suitably nourished from Jon, his skin still prickling from the taste of his brother’s blood. His leg bounces under the table and it is difficult to focus on the tedious conversations everyone is having. Jon’s blood often makes him restless.

“Something wrong with your fangs, lad?”

Distracted as he is, it takes Robb a moment to realise King Robert is addressing him with that question. When he looks around, he sees the entire table is staring at him. For a moment he is not sure what to say. “I’m…not hungry, Your Grace.”

Robert laughs. The Queen smirks down at the table. Prince Joffrey is not so coy in his derision. “What does hungry have to do with it? Did you gorge yourself before you came? Are there tastier servants that we’re not being given?”

“I can assure you, these are our best,” Robb’s mother says diplomatically with a warm smile.

“Let the lad alone,” Robert’s deep voice booms over the table merrily. He seems to have forgotten that he is the one who began this a mere moment before. That could have something to do with his insistence on plying his dinner with wine to feel the effects in their blood. “Most like he has a sweetheart he likes to nibble on and he couldn’t help himself before he came to dinner.”

The shock of how close that is to truth leaves Robb reeling. It must show on his face as Queen Cersei takes an interest. “Is she very pretty, this blood doll of yours?” The woman asks, voice precise and elegant like an assassin’s blade. 

This seems to be more than his mother can bear. “Robb does _not_ dally with mortal women. He feeds as the rest of us do, but that is where it ends.” She glares at him. “Robb, you should feed.” She nods towards the girl on the floor, who seems desperate to be anywhere else. Jon would offer up his blood willingly. Robb’s mind goes to memories of his brother’s warmth in his arms, the love and trust in the stretch of his neck when he bares it to sate his brother’s hunger. Nothing could be further from this huddled girl on the floor. Robb does not even want to know how she tastes. No one has Jon’s spark.

“Robb.” His father echoes his name in warning. Everyone at the table is staring. Robb looks out across the hall, but Jon is not in his previous seat, nor anywhere else to be seen. Has he left out of boredom or loneliness? 

When he meets Sansa’s eyes, she looks away. She does not like this display for different reasons, being a creature of courtesy and discretion. Robb would happily show them how willing Jon is to serve. He would have his brother lay his head on Robb’s thigh and let the royal party hear Jon offer his blood up without being asked. In fact, he has to abandon the idea quickly to avoid showing too much excitement at the dinner table. Robb sighs. “Really, I’m not hungry.”

“You should have brought your pretty little thing to dinner!” The king goes on.

“Your Grace,” Robb’s father says with a brittle smile, “There is no _pretty thing_ that Robb pines for. It’s just uncommon for our children to feed in polite company. The youngest can let their hunger get the better of them, but our eldest have been raised to eat in private.”

“That may be true,” King Robert allows with a grin, “But it doesn’t account for the blood on his breath.” He chuckles when the Starks stare and taps his nose knowingly when he catches Robb’s eye. “My family have always had a knack for sniffing out this sort of thing. There’s a tasty little morsel involved in this so-called polite abstinence.”

Robb can tell from his mother’s stiff posture that he is in trouble. She had even inspected Jon’s neck before dinner to make sure he had not broken the new rule. She had not thought to check his wrist, where Robb had drunk his fill from. As he racks his brain for what to say, there is a sudden tug in his chest, like someone squeezing his heart.

Something is wrong.

“Where’s Jon?” he asks his Uncle Benjen. If something is amiss enough for him to feel it as an actual ache in his body, it has to involve Jon.

Uncle Benjen looks at him like he has gone mad. “I really don’t think now’s the time, Robb. You can see him later, can’t you?”

“Something’s wrong,” Robb explains. The feeling is worsening, a tightening in his chest. He pushes his seat back from the table. “Please excuse me.”

His mother grabs his wrist. “Robb, sit down,” she insists in a frantic whisper.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t.” He tugs away from her and flees the table. It is undignified, he knows and he will have a lot to answer for later. But a fear is growing in him. It is irrational, he does not know what has caused it, but for some reason he is certain it has something to do with Jon. It feels like hearing him scream, though his brother is nowhere in sight.

As he reaches the door of the Great Hall he sees his father is following, no doubt with discipline in mind. Robb might very well have soured their relations with the royals permanently with his behaviour tonight. If Jon is fine he will feel a complete fool. Perhaps it is just a reaction to being denied his blood? Gods, he hopes not. How immature.

He is across the courtyard when his father calls and he ignores him in favour of heading to the keep. When his father calls again it is a command, with all the force of his powerful blood behind it. Robb’s legs seize, keeping him in place. His father has never used the voice on him before. This is serious.

But his heart _hurts_. It clenches again, as if it needs to pump blood around his body. Robb summons all of his willpower and focuses on moving his right leg. He takes a step. The second step is easier. The movement seems to break the hold of his father’s voice and Robb is free to rush into the keep and close the door. He bounds up the steps as familiar voices begin to filter down to him from one of the upstairs chambers.

“Eddard Stark will have your head!”

“Only if he knows it was me, which he won’t. There must be someone around to take the fall. Where’s our dear cousin, is he still in the Great Hall? Get him here.”

It sounds like the Lannister brothers are conspiring. Robb relishes the opportunity to catch them in the act. He nears the door and waits outside a moment.

“Gods, brother. I don’t think you’ll be able to sweep this one under the carpet.”

“Could you try putting that big brain of yours to some use and help me? It isn’t as though I meant to do this. I just couldn’t… you don’t understand. You haven’t tasted him. I couldn’t stop.”

Even as Robb pushes open the door he knows what he is going to see, but for some reason the knowledge does not prepare him for the shock. The room is frosted over, as if caught in a sudden winter. Jon is across the bed, throat red and savaged, eyes shut.

Robb cannot hear his heartbeat.

The Lannisters stare at him. The Imp backs away. The Kingslayer’s hand goes to his sword.

“We found him like this,” the oathbreaker lies. As he speaks, the scent of Jon’s blood fills the air. “We’ll find the ones responsible.”

“I’ve found the one responsible,” Robb snarls, fangs lengthening.

It is at that moment that his father bursts in looking for him. “Robb, I—“ Lord Stark’s voice fails at the sight of Jon’s body on the bed. “Jon!” He races to the bedside and puts a hand to his son’s neck, then his chest. Robb does not need such closeness to know his brother has been killed. He felt it, the crushing feeling in his chest suddenly making so much more sense. Jon’s heart had called to his in his final moments. 

“He needs our blood. _Robb_ ,” his father calls urgently.

“It’s too late,” Robb says, his glare still settled on Jaime Lannister’s face. “The Kingslayer’s killed him. He’s killed Jon.” For a moment he feels a total calm. Every concern he has ever held is suddenly so far away. All that matters is tearing the Kingslayer’s head from his body. Perhaps it will mean war, perhaps it will be considered a rightful execution. Robb no longer cares. 

“I will defend myself if I must,” Jaime says, drawing his sword. “Think before you strike.”

“ _Somebody_ fetch me my Maester!” Robb’s father roars as he drips blood into Jon’s mouth from his wrist. The Imp scurries past Jaime and Robb, fleeing the room. Robb pays him no heed. His vision is red around the edges, as though a film of blood is forming around his eyes. Crystal-clear in the middle, he sees his prey. It looks nervous now. 

Good.

It speaks, but the words are just noise. Garbled sounds carrying the smell of his brother’s blood.

His prey takes a step.

Robb lunges.

*

“Where are we going?”

Daenerys squeezes Jon affectionately, her slender arms stronger than they look. It is her embrace keeping him on the horse, Jon realises. When did he climb onto a horse?

“Winterfell, Jon. We are taking you North.”

Around them is desert as far as the eye can see. A pale, grey desert under a glaring white sky. Jon squints against the haze. It hurts to look so far.

“Stop that,” Viserys commands from ahead. “You’ll tire yourself out and then…” He falls silent.

“We’re far from Winterfell,” Jon says. He feels confused, light-headed. If not for Daenerys he would fall from the horse. The horse that is making no sound. Jon looks to the front, where Viserys rides another magnificent white steed. It too is silent, hooves beating down with no sound on the pale sand. Not even a horse-like bray comes from the creatures. “This is another dream.”

“I wish it were,” Daenerys says sadly, stroking a lock of hair from his forehead. “If it were a dream, we wouldn’t be so afraid of letting you go.”

“I’m not afraid,” Viserys says firmly. “He’ll have what he deserves. Didn’t we warn him?” He tugs on the reins and silently his horse comes to a halt, letting Jon and Daenerys catch up. There is not even a breeze. Jon has never known such unnatural stillness, even amongst the dead at their castle surrounded by snow. Viserys and Daenerys are the only sources of sound. Viserys’ eyes flash violet in his rage and Jon welcomes the colour in this grey world. “I said he was in danger but the little fool wouldn’t listen. I don’t fear anything, least of all what happens to stupid, disobedient nephews.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. His kin seem older than they did in his last dream, Jon realises. His aunt has never looked so cold and sure. “No?” She asks her brother. “Well then, why are we making such effort?”

Her embrace loosens and Jon falls. He grabs clumsily for the horse, but his hand passes through it as though it were water. Hands hook under his shoulders, startling him. As Viserys lifts him, Jon feels as though he is being held over the edge of a tower. His eyes tell his mind that there is pale sand not far below his feet. Every other part of him insists to his mind that he would have touched it then, if it were truly there. 

Viserys lifts Jon onto his lap as Daenerys had held him before. He glares at his sister. “What if I had let him fall?”

“You wouldn’t have,” she says confidently. “We’re all that’s left.”

Her brother purses his lips angrily then flexes the reins of his horse to get moving again. The reins make no snapping sound. Jon reaches out to the horse’s back. Its muscles appear to move under the skin like a real horse, but when his fingers graze it they slip inside, like dipping his hand into snow. He draws back sharply. “I don’t understand,” he says to Viserys in a panic.

“There’s little to understand,” Viserys replies, snappish as ever. “You ought to have listened to me and fled those monsters. Me and Dany barely caught you in time.”

“But what happened?”

Daenerys rides up alongside them on her silent steed. She smiles, but the curve of her lips is sad and feeble. She reaches out to caress his cheek as she answers.

“You died, Jon.”

*

Jon’s chamber is black as pitch but Catelyn can see her eldest son at the bedside as she pushes open the door. Robb lifts his head with a growl, but it dies in his throat when he sees her. He turns his head to face Jon once more, though there is no sense in watching over the bastard boy. He is not going to wake. Maester Luwin has confirmed it.

“The royal party have gone. I thought that news would please you.”

Robb makes a quiet grunt of agreement. He clutches Jon’s hand where it lies pale and lifeless against the blankets. In fact, Robb looks rather too pale himself.

“You haven’t been feeding,” Catelyn observes. Her son ignores her, as is his new habit. “Robb, you _have_ to eat. I know you’re using your blood to sustain Jon. If you don’t eat you’ll have nothing left. You’ll meet the final death.”

“I should have been with him,” Robb says miserably, gaze still upon his brother’s face. “Royal visit or no, we should have been together. The Kingslayer would never have dared touch him if I were there.”

“Ser Jaime Lannister was lucky to be leaving with his party,” Catelyn admonishes. In truth, though Robb was brash in his attack, she can understand why it happened. It is difficult to be too hard on him when the Lannisters had the audacity to attack one of their own in Winterfell. Jon Snow has never been her son, but her children love him. Her husband loves him. To murder him in their home, even if Ser Jaime thought him little more than a blood source, was nothing less than an insult. She knows her son saw it as much more.

“The Kingslayer is lucky to have a face,” Robb growls, low and dangerous. He had terrified them all in his blood-rage. Her little boy had turned not into a lord, but into a ravenous, howling monster. His eyes had been red but for a pinprick of black in the middle and it had taken Ned, Robert Baratheon, Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy to pry him off of Jaime Lannister, snarling and thrashing. All night the Queen and the Imp had let blood to revive their brother. Eventually it worked.

Stark blood did not revive Jon Snow. He breathes, faintly. His heart beats, slowly. But his eyes have not opened since the attack. _The body lives,_ Maester Luwin told them, _but the spirit has fled_. Her son cannot accept it. Catelyn had let him have his grief at first, but days have gone by and Robb has not stirred from Jon’s side. 

“The betrothal between Sansa and Prince Joffrey is broken.”

“Good. She wouldn’t have been safe.”

Catelyn fights to control her fangs. Robb is young, of course he does not see the larger picture. “It would have been good for House Stark to marry a daughter to a prince. Your father would have made a good hand of the king too.”

“A good hand for a terrible king. What would be the point? Father deserves better than to clean up their mess. His place is here, with us.”

She steps forward and gently runs her fingers through Robb’s hair. He needs to take better care of himself. Soon he will be at the age where his appearance becomes a constant. If he does not keep himself fed, he will look haggard and tired for all eternity. “Your place is with us, Robb. Not shut away in this room alone.”

“I’m not alone. I’m with Jon.”

“Robb…”

“I want to be the first thing he sees when he wakes. He called to me, mother. As the Kingslayer drained him, Jon called to me. I need him to know that I heard. That I ran to him.” Robb’s voice shakes, the grief still strong. “I need him to know I’ve been here all along.”

“He isn’t going to wake up,” Catelyn whispers, trying to gentle the harsh words that her son needs to hear.

Her son flinches away from her hand. “You should go.”

“Oh, Robb…”

“You shouldn’t be here. You never liked him.”

“Because I knew he would be your ruin!” Catelyn cries, trying to make him understand. Any distrust and dislike she has harboured for Jon Snow has only ever been for the sake of their family. In a way this very situation proves her right, though she is not heartless enough to point that out.

“The Lannisters were our ruin.”

It will be light soon. Catelyn cannot abide the thought of her son shut in here all day, unfed and not sleeping. Jon Snow is to blame, no matter what Robb says. “The bastard was ruin to you before the Lannisters arrived. You had stopped feeding on all others, don’t deny it.”

Robb shrugs. He leans over and rests his forehead on Jon’s shoulder. Jaime Lannister’s bites are still on Jon’s neck. They have been healing extremely slowly, the body’s energies focused on trying to remain alive. “I won’t deny it. Jon’s blood has always been sweetest to me. Everyone else tastes like dirt.”

“Everyone else is normal. There’s…” She hesitates. Does the truth even matter anymore? The boy is dead, what does it matter who knows of his lineage? Still, she knows Ned would want her to maintain the deceit to the very end. “You must have noticed something in his blood. Something different.”

Her son laughs quietly. It is the loveliest sound she has heard in days. She wants to take him into her arms and let him grieve, but she knows he will push her away. 

“I noticed. You all kept feeding from the servants though, so I thought… I thought maybe it was best for me. I always sort of hoped that Jon tasted even better for me. Not that he could control that sort of thing. Stupid, I suppose. But the servants never felt like Jon. I didn’t love them like I love Jon.” Robb’s eyes are reddening with blood-tears when he looks up at her. “I know it’s wrong and I know you’ll despise him all the more for it, but I do love him. I love him like no man should love a brother.”

“Robb,” Catelyn whispers, pressing a hand to her chest. She has always known their bond was unnatural, but this… it is worse than anything she has dreaded.

“I’m only telling you now because you need to know.” Robb squeezes his brother’s hand again. “I love you, mother. But that won’t keep me here if I lose him. Do you understand?”

“No. Robb, I don’t. Not one word.”

A blood-tear trickles down her son’s cheek and falls onto the furs covering his brother. “If Jon dies, I’m tugging down these curtains and letting the sunlight in.”

Now Catelyn reaches out for her son. Robb does not fight her embrace, but he does not let go of Jon’s hand either. “Don’t say such things,” she says, fighting back tears of her own. “You’re grieving and though Jon was never dear to me, I _do_ understand. But Robb, we need you. We love you so dearly, don’t ever threaten such things.”

“I feel like I’m already done, mother. There’s nothing for me if I can’t see him smile again, if I can’t know the warmth of him in my arms.”

“My darling, you’re so young. You don’t know all the wonders that wait for you.”

“There’s only one I care for,” Robb says, staring down at Jon’s sleeping face with such pain in his expression that Cat knows she will fight a losing battle for her son if Jon Snow is lost.

She sends a servant to Robb that night, though she knows he will not feed. And before sunrise, she joins Sansa in her prayers for Jon’s recovery.

*

“People say they’re more beautiful than anyone in all Westeros,” Sansa says dreamily, her hand clutching Robb’s as she tells him all about the happenings in the kingdom.

He does not care. It makes them feel better to talk to him though, so he lets his family prattle on in nightly visits. They speak to him like he speaks to Jon – as if he is sleeping. It makes sense. Robb is scarcely with them anymore, more attuned to the slow thump of Jon’s heartbeat than any words that fall from Sansa’s lips. At first his family had worried. The longer Robb stayed with his brother, the more worry turned to fear. After attempts to drag him from the room and efforts to force him to feed, eventually they have had to face the truth. Robb refuses to be without Jon.

“The kingdom was so unstable already, what with Robert Baratheon’s death and Stannis’ accusations that Joffrey is illegitimate. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Joffrey certainly looks more Lannister than Baratheon.”

Hang them all. Robb hopes his father tears them all to pieces. He has travelled south with his banners to support Stannis’ claim. It was the first time Robb had considered leaving this room. It would be so sweet to finally exact vengeance upon the Kingslayer. Not a day goes by that he does not fantasise about interrupting the man’s attack. It makes him sick to think on it. The Kingslayer was a coward and a manipulator, so he would have enthralled Jon into going with him into the chamber. Robb’s sweet brother would have followed him like a lamb to slaughter, sitting docile as Jaime Lannister drained his life away.

“But with the Targaryens appearing, everything is in disarray now. Maybe I’ll get to marry Viserys Targaryen, can you imagine? I mean, if it isn’t just rumour. Everyone claims to have seen them, but they’ve raised no banners, so… They’ll have to figure out who wins the kingdom though. Technically I suppose it should still be Stannis Baratheon. It’s all rather complicated.”

Robb nuzzles Jon’s hair and holds him closer. He lies in the bed these nights, pretending that they are both only sleeping. He gives blood to Jon every night and that has sustained him for many moons, but it cannot do so forever. One night Robb will wake to find his brother’s heart has beat its last. His father says they have a ‘blood-bond’, an attachment that can form between vampire lovers. Robb’s mother maintains such a thing is impossible, but Robb remembers the pain in his chest when Jon was in danger and knows that they have formed a connection deeper than love.

He misses dreaming together more than anything.

“It’s nearly sun-up,” Sansa says quietly. She stands from her seat and straightens her skirts out before leaning over and pressing a kiss to Robb’s forehead. “Good day Robb.” She presses a kiss to Jon’s head too. “Good day Jon.”

At the door she hesitates and looks back at them sadly, but she does not linger long. Like the rest of their family, she has grown accustomed to Robb’s absence. 

It is just as well. Every night draws them nearer to its permanence.

*

“Hold on, nephew.”

Jon knows things are not well, solely from the gentleness of Viserys’ voice. His uncle is not one for tenderness and coddling, but of late he has been just as sweet as Daenerys.

“Am I sick?” Jon asks as he is carried along. They are walking now, through fields of silver grass under a sky so bright it glows white. It is colder than it was, he thinks. He could be mistaken. Nothing seems to make very much sense here.

“You’re weakening,” his aunt says, concern on her beautiful face as she walks alongside them. “Viserys said you would.” She glances at her brother’s face nervously. 

Viserys is glaring ahead as he always does, but when his gaze does flit down to Jon his brow creases slightly in an expression that looks like worry.

“I heard screaming,” Jon murmurs, lifting his right arm to check he still can. He can, but it is difficult. They have been travelling for so long.

“We’re at war,” Viserys explains. “In the waking world, I mean. We try to shield you from it, but some things slip through.”

“You’re awake now.” It is not a simple thing to comprehend. They have been dream-walking for their whole lives. It is second nature to them and well understood. 

“Yes, but it’s about disconnecting a part of the mind. Making a sanctuary. If we only held you in our dreams, we would lose you when we woke up.” Viserys tightens his hold. Jon wonders if he realises he is doing it. His uncle is bitter and broken, but there is something hopeful in him. Something that claws Daenerys and Jon closer even as it claims to need no one.

“There,” Dany says suddenly.

In the distance Jon sees ghosts ride across the field then fade away. A ghostly horse rears up with a familiar rider on it and Jon calls out as it fades away. “Father!”

“He isn’t your father,” Viserys snaps. “He’s your kidnapper.”

Even explaining the situation with the Lannisters has not made his aunt and uncle tolerant of the Starks. They still blame them for the harm that befell Jon. 

“Regardless,” Daenerys says to her brother, “He is the one we seek.”

They walk again. Jon has come to realise that this journey is not real. Realisations come slowly to him here. It is like a dream, all things seeming mundane and sensible until they are considered deeply. Even then, things become confused. Even calling to his father has exhausted him.

“Rest, Jon,” instructs Viserys. “We’ll get you back to your family of monsters.”

Jon curls into his uncle’s hold. Relaxing is not hard here. The world and its problems seem very far away. If only Robb were here too, Jon could be happy never leaving. Well… he would miss his other family. As he starts to drift he hears his aunt whisper, “I don’t think we’re going to make it…”

Even that is difficult to worry about. Everything is difficult now. He just wants to rest.

*

The Targaryens end Ned’s battle by arriving. Men put down their swords. The armies part like butter sliced by a hot knife. The two nymph-like dragons do not have the mesmerising presence of Rhaegar and the ground barely scorches beneath their feet, but it does not matter. They are Targaryen. For the people thrown this way and that by the political machinations and war-mongering of vampires, they are a new hope. A fresh breath of life from a tyranny dead and forgotten. 

Jaime Lannister lowers his blade to his side. A pity. Ned cannot bring himself to behead the man while his guard is down. Not even for Jon, who lies still and lifeless with his grieving brother.

“Friends,” Jaime says cheerfully as the Targaryens approach, his hand on his sword. They are beautiful these dragons, bare-foot and clad in loose robes that are a paler shade of purple than their vivid eyes. They look at Jaime without fear and without affection. Ned wonders if they know Jaime’s nickname is Kingslayer, that he was responsible for ending their legacy. Clearly Jaime is hoping they do not, approaching with all the vampiric charm he can muster. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Westeros.”

“You aren’t the first,” the woman says, Princess Daenerys, if Ned is correct in his assumption. She smiles and behind Ned more swords clatter to the ground.

“I… sorry?” Jaime smiles, continuing to push his thrall towards them. A pointless exercise. He ought to know that. Even when the blood thinned, Targaryens were no easy targets for vampire thrall.

“Well, there were the Martells of Dorne, they were most kind.” Daenerys smiles at the Prince, who has a grim face but wild eyes that dart around the battlefield. “My brother might even have a wife out of it. We left most of our khalasar there. Then there was the… what was the family name?” She looks at her brother expectantly.

“The Tyrells of Highgarden,” Prince Viserys says. “They were most helpful. As was the pretender Prince, Renly. I see no dangers from there. They’re all very aware of their rightful rulers.”

Jaime’s smile is a flimsy thing now, stretched thinly over his discomfort. “That is good to hear. People should respect your rights as royalty. However, the kingdom is in a perilous state.” He looks towards Ned for a moment. “This man is leading a rebellion of the north. He aims to fracture this kingdom before you can be seated properly in the throne.”

The Targaryens look at Ned briefly, but then their gazes flit back to Jaime. “You would have us side with you?” Viserys asks coolly.

Jaime shrugs, a forced nonchalance in his posture. “If you want your kingdom whole. I know there has been bad blood between our families, but…” He holds out his hand. “These are different times.”

Thousands of men hold their breath. Viserys and Daenerys eye the proffered hand curiously.

Viserys smiles, more predatory than any vampire Ned has seen. He reaches out and shakes Jaime’s hand. Ned’s heart sinks. His mind fills with visions of his army ablaze. He thinks of Catelyn and their children, huddled in Winterfell awaiting news. He thinks of Robb and Jon locked away in their tableau of grief and death.

“I must disagree with you though,” Viserys says, still smiling, still holding Jaime’s hand. “I think there has been some rather good blood between our families. What did my father taste like?” Jaime looks wary, but is not given the chance to answer. “It must have been good, else why drain my nephew dry years later?” Jaime tries to tug his hand free, but Viserys holds firm. Ned is reeling – how do they know about Jon? Or is there another nephew Jaime has bitten? No, no, they must be speaking of Jon. How have they heard of it? How do they know of Jon?

Crying out, Jaime tugs at his hand. Smoke is beginning to rise from their palms. An entire army stands by with Lannister banners, not one man brave enough or sure enough of his loyalty to step forward. 

“Let me go!” Jaime shouts.

“Like you let our nephew go?” Daenerys snaps, teeth bared. She leans down to be level with Jaime as Viserys’ grip forces him to his knees. “He cried out for you to stop. He wept for his brother. And you drank every last drop of life from his veins. So no, we will _not_ let you go. Monsters like you need to be burned.”

The princess grabs Jaime’s arm and more smoke begins to rise. Having said their piece, the Targaryens waste no more time on this slow cooking of their prey. Flames begin to ignite along Jaime’s arms, then back. He screams out, but the sound dies in a crackle of spitting fire as flames seem to erupt from inside his body. Ser Jaime Lannister is destroyed in seconds, scorched bones and ash all that remain of the infamous knight.

Viserys turns to face the Lannister army. “Drop those banners or flee! Any man who stays does so for House Targaryen!”

Some flee. The boy is no Rhaegar. An alarming amount stay, trampling lion banners into the dirt. So soon people forget the true face of tyranny. Ned looks at the remains of Jaime Lannister and wonders if it is possible to imagine such pain. He will surely know it soon enough.

“Lord Eddard Stark.” The Targaryens are watching him now.

“We have been fighting the tyranny of the Lannisters and supporting the cause of Stannis Baratheon, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” He will not lie to save himself.

At that, the prince narrows his violet eyes. “My father was the rightful ruler of Westeros, removed by treachery. My brother was killed on the battlefield. By you and your allies, I seem to recall. His son survives him, bastard though he may be. Take us to him. Take us to Jon Snow.”

Ned struggles with his confusion. “But… you said it yourself, Jaime Lannister drained him dry. We could barely revive him. He…” Ned clears his throat, the pain of Jon’s state still choking him after all this time. “He won’t live.” It is possible he is gone even now. Ned had visited his chamber before leaving. It gives him a physical pain to recall the stillness and fragility of Jon’s dying body, with Robb increasingly unresponsive and weak beside him. Cat had seen danger in their closeness all those years ago, but Ned had not wanted to see. Now he will lose two dear sons instead of one.

“He will if we reach him in time,” Princess Daenerys says firmly. “We have journeyed so far. Please, Lord Stark.”

The men behind him are murmuring and Ned wonders what rumours will have begun by sunrise. But for the first time in many moons, he has hope for his eldest boys again. 

“The trip will take time. You might find it cold.”

“We’re no strangers to hardship,” Viserys snaps, “But we mustn’t dally. Jon’s life depends on our haste.”

“Very well.” Ned calls for two horses, though he wants to be asking questions. A couple of his men bring steeds part of the way, but then the animals shake free and trot over to the Targaryens without being guided. The horses respond to them in the way that animals respond to Jon, affectionate and helpful. Ned can make animals obey, Arya can make them disobey, but until now he has only witnessed such willing loyalty from beasts in Jon’s company.

Ned instructs his men to make camp and requests Roose and the Greatjon ride with him for a time. He can plan the next movements of his army as he begins the trek with the Targaryens. A part of him thinks it might be best to keep command himself in the planned meeting with Stannis, but these Targaryens are wildcards. It is best that they are watched and negotiated with before they throw their weight into the war. Besides, if he travels with them he will be able to see if they are telling the truth about Jon. If they save him, Robb will survive too.

“There is but one condition on this rescue,” Viserys says as they begin to ride. The turncloaks from the Lannister army fall into confused formation and follow. The thought of leading them all to Winterfell troubles Ned. He wonders if this young prince has ever led an army. He was so young when his family fell, has he ever received any instruction on how to lead?

“What condition, Prince Viserys?” There is little Ned will not give for Jon’s safe awakening.

“After Jon has woken, your family will sever all ties. Your brood of monsters have done enough damage. If he is to live, it will be with his true family.”

“I understand.”

Robb will rage. But what else can Ned say, if this is Jon’s only chance?

*

“Remember when all the snows melted and overfilled the streams?” Robb presses his lips to Jon’s hair. He washed it days before, but it is difficult to maintain the pretence that everything is okay. 

The power of Robb’s blood is wearing thin after all these moons and Jon’s body is weakening. His breaths are barely audible, even to Robb’s brilliant hearing. Sansa and Arya have even been loaning their blood to help, but it has not had any beneficial effect. Jon is dying. 

“Father feared for the crops and the possible flooding, but we didn’t let it trouble us. It was hot, so we paddled and waded. Remember the evening it got cold again and caught us off-guard? We went for the hot springs instead. We were splashing around and we got to play-fighting. I let you win, just to see you smile.”

He kisses his brother’s cheek again. He can no longer cry. His body feels drained, weary and heavy. He clambered out of the bed when night came around, trying to get some feeling back into his legs. He cannot remember when he lost the will to go on without Jon. Certainly he has loved him for as long as he can remember. His mother thinks it is just the bond of blood, but Robb knows that the intimacy of feeding is not responsible for how he feels about his brother’s smile or brilliant mind. He will never feed from Jon again if it means his brother wakes.

“You thought I was sour about it because I hurried off. Actually I was just… well, wrestling with you in the springs, it… it got me a little excited. I didn’t want you to know. I know that we can’t ever be together, but…” His voice breaks at the thought. Of course they will never be together. All reasons of fraternity and propriety aside, Jon will never be with him as a brother or lover. He is not going to wake up.

The door swings open and Arya runs in, hair wild and face mucky. She has been playing outside again. She rushes to Robb’s side and tugs on his arm. 

“Robb! Robb, father’s here! He’s got some strange people with him!”

“Targaryens!” Sansa cries out, for once barely more composed than their sister as she bursts into the room. “It’s the Princess Daenerys and Prince Viserys! They’re really here!” She is practically swooning as she reaches the bed. “They’re as beautiful as everyone said!”

“I really don’t care. Sorry.”

He does not want to upset them, but what does it matter who their guests are? Robb has no intention of meeting them or engaging with any visitors to Winterfell. It is already clear that Bran will be their father’s heir. Robb is tired of it all. Just tired. Before sunrise he will take his place on the bed beside Jon and rest. That is all he cares to do now. What is Winterfell without Jon? What is Robb without Jon?

“They’re here to see Jon, I heard,” Sansa says, putting a gentle hand on Robb’s shoulder.

A growl tears from his throat. His brother is not a spectacle. If these are Jon’s final nights, Robb wants them to himself.

“They’ve no business here. Bar the door.”

His sisters share a nervous look. Arya pats him, trying to be reassuring and failing miserably. “I don’t think that’s going to work if father brought them all the way here. Come on, Robb. They just want to see him.”

“Why? He’s _mine_!”

“He’s our brother too,” Sansa says firmly. “And there’s no harm in it, is there? What more could possibly happen? He’s dying, Robb.”

He has to let go of Jon’s hand or risk squeezing it too hard. His emotions have not been under his own control for a long time. It was supposed to be a growing pain, a result of new feelings as maturity approached. With everything that has happened, Robb does not know if he will ever feel sane and stable again. 

“Robb. Girls.” Their father arrives at the door with the reputed guests in tow. Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys stand behind him, hair shimmering silver in the candlelight, eyes gleaming violet. Sansa was right, they are lovely creatures. They remind him of the tales Jon used to tell about lost Targaryens, silver-haired and beautiful. Robb looks back to his brother, wondering what they need here. What do the remnants of House Targaryen care about a dying bastard of Winterfell?

Sansa and Arya slip out of the room as their father invites his guests into Robb and Jon’s sanctuary. Robb does not feel capable of greeting such important visitors so he pretends they are not there at all. It has been so long since he has felt fit to be heir of Winterfell. How can he possibly protect the people of the North when he cannot even protect his dearest brother?

His father’s hand falls upon his shoulder heavily. “Robb, you should go and feed.”

“I’m fine.” He has said that more than anything else these past months.

“You don’t look fine. Go find some blood. I’ll keep an eye on Jon.”

Jon is barely breathing. His heart’s rhythm has been irregular for nights. The world is just cruel enough to cut the last thread of life while Robb is gone, after moons of attentive care.

“I won’t leave his side, father. No matter what you say.”

“The Prince and Princess think they can help him. I know you love him, but you’re in the way. Move aside. Go feed. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”

Robb glares at the newcomers. They stand there resplendent, immaculate and uncaring that they are dragging Robb away from his love. “How can we trust them? They’re Targaryen.”

“Jon Snow is our nephew,” Prince Viserys snaps. “If not for the Usurper and traitors like your family, he would be Jon Targaryen.”

“What?” He looks at his father, who seems awkward about the announcement. “Is this true? Is Jon not—“

“To all intents and purposes, he is your brother,” his lord father says as the Prince and Princess approach Jon’s bed. “I raised him as such to protect him. But his true mother was my sister, Lyanna.”

“And his father was our brother, Rhaegar Targaryen,” Princess Daenerys says, her voice as melodious as Robb expected, but stronger. “In other circumstances, such a match might have allied our houses.”

“With all due respects,” Robb’s father says darkly, “Your brother was to blame for those circumstances. He was already wed and she was little more than a child.”

“Old enough to make a child of her own,” Prince Viserys replies, reaching out to Jon’s face.

Robb snarls as soon as the man’s pale fingers graze Jon’s cheek. “What are you doing?”

His father tugs him away from the bed. “Enough, Robb. This is madness. You’ve been left to your grief too long.”

“We’re _bonded_ ,” Robb reminds him, “You said it yourself! Of course I won’t leave him! Of course I’m grieving! The Kingslayer has torn most of him away from me and now you want me to abandon the rest!”

“The Kingslayer has been destroyed at our hands,” Princess Daenerys says to him. “We would consider it a token of your gratitude if you left the room. Both of you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Robb says. He is glad that Jaime Lannister is dead. He hopes he suffered. That does not mean he owes these Targaryens anything. 

“Then he’ll die,” says Prince Viserys bluntly. “Our energies and yours do not mix. The both of you reek of death. You need to step outside if we are to return his spirit to his body.”

He looks at Jon’s still body and fights down the urge to go back to the bedside and hold his hand. That is the bond talking, guiding his actions as it has these past moons. Their love is more than a blood connection. If Jon is to live, Robb must step back. It is not a grand sacrifice, but it feels almost impossible.

“Okay.” He nods to his father. “I’ll go.”

Clearly his struggle is showing through as his father takes hold of his shoulder and steers him to the door.

“Lord Stark, you wait outside,” the Prince says. “But your boy needs to be further away. This _bond_ of theirs,” he says the word with utter disdain, “could affect what we do here.”

“Understood.”

As soon as the Princess shuts the door behind them Robb splays his hands against the wooden surface. What are they doing to Jon in there? Will it work? He looks to his father helplessly.

“Go feed, Robb.”

“But…”

“I won’t have Jon returned to us just to lose you to hunger. Go find your mother. She has fretted for you for too long. She’ll weep with joy if you say you’d like to feed.”

It is not that Robb does not feel guilty about the worry he has caused, only that he never knew how to stop it. He did not have the strength to be himself without Jon by his side. He had never realised just how entwined he and his brother were until Jon was drained.

Cousin, not brother. Jon is his cousin.

That almost makes it acceptable.

*

Jon’s dreams start to change. He dreams of Winterfell, of Robb clutching his hand. His brother – no, cousin – is so distraught that Jon wants to soothe him, but he cannot move.

He dreams his father is smiling down at him, tears of blood gathering in the corners of his eyes as he sits where Robb had been and holds Jon’s hands. “We’d lost all hope,” his father – no, uncle – murmurs, overjoyed. Jon murmurs some reply, but his voice is cracked and tired.

Jon dreams he is in a carriage, his head cushioned on Aunt Daenerys’ lap. Her fingers are in his hair. The carriage wheels rumble as though they are beneath his head. Outside horses stomp and bray. People are shouting, though it sounds merry. 

“It’s too loud,” he whispers.

“It will seem that way for a time,” says his Uncle Viserys, sitting on the cushions opposite them, staring out of the window.

“You’re awake, Jon,” Daenerys says, beaming down at him. “It might take some getting used to. You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”

This sinks in for a moment as Jon struggles up into a seated position. Recollections are beginning to return to him. Jon slaps a hand to his neck, Jaime Lannister’s bite suddenly at his throat all over again. The skin feels healed but the panic does not abate. Robb, where is Robb? His brother would never have let a Lannister drain him dry.

“Hush, nephew, hush…” Only when Daenerys’ hands run up and down his arms does Jon realise he is shivering. 

“I dreamed that I died,” he says, eyes darting between his aunt and uncle.

“That wasn’t the dream,” Viserys replies, finally looking away from the view outside. “That part was real. The Kingslayer tore into your throat and your kidnappers didn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Me and Dany had to ride to your rescue. It was a long journey and you dreamed all the way. It was the only option.”

“You went to Winterfell?”

“We did,” Daenerys smiles. “We retrieved you and revived you. Now we’re taking you home.”

“Home?” Winterfell is his home.

“King’s Landing. It is our rightful home.” Viserys looks out of the window again, no doubt thinking of the trials that lie ahead. Not everyone will be pleased to see the Targaryens return. “The man who has won King’s Landing from the Lannisters is said to be strong-willed. We will need to muster all of our power to make him accept us as the rightful rulers.”

It seems much has happened in Jon’s slumber. For all that he has rested, he feels exhausted. He looks out of the other window. The land outside is green and brown, warmer than Winterfell. They are further south than he realised. 

“I wanted to see my family,” he says, unable to understand why he has not woken surrounded by Starks.

“You did, don’t you remember?” Daenerys reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Lord Stark bid you farewell. He insisted on seeing you before you left. I fear you might not have been in the best state to appreciate it.”

So perhaps that was not a dream. “And my brother Robb?”

At that, his aunt and uncle share an awkward glance. There is a moment of silence before his uncle answers the question. “It was considered best by us and your false parents that the two of you be separated. An unhealthy bond had formed. It had to be broken.”

“What is that supposed to mean? He’s my _brother_ , of course we’re close! I’ve sustained him with my own blood for years—“

“And that had to stop!” Viserys snaps. “You are not food, Jon. You are a dragon. Now more than ever.”

“Now more than ever? What are you talking about?”

Daenerys reached to her belt and drew a short, broad-bladed dagger. She held it out in front of Jon like a looking-glass. “The process of bringing you back to yourself seems to have excited your dragon blood.”

Staring back at Jon from his own reflection are two vivid, violet eyes.

*

“Your Grace, perhaps it is time for a short break.”

King Stannis Baratheon waves Ser Davos away, keeping his stern gaze fixed firmly on the smirking boy dragon across the table. He understands his friend’s concern. The dragons are powerful and manipulative creatures. They evoke desire and fatal loyalty simply through their presence, wielding wicked emotional powers from doomed Valyria. Stannis considers himself strong-willed, but his resolve is weakening. Their words sound more persuasive than they did hours before. Still, if he shows this weakness he has already lost. He thought he had won the Iron Throne in the Battle for the Red Keep, but then fate was cruel enough to put this other battle in his path. This one is fought with words, which Stannis considers inferior to swords.

“If you need time to consider our offer, by all means,” grins the Targaryen Prince. Lean and silver-haired with eyes of Aerys and a smile that reminds Stannis of Joffrey.

“Your offer? I would barely call it one. A seat on your council wouldn’t be worth the tip of a sword from the Iron Throne. It’s an insult.”

“It’s an honour!” The Prince cries out, his sister sitting stoic and mostly silent in the seat next to his. “Your brother stole that throne from our family. We could order Baratheons and their loyalists purged from this land as easily as your brother ordered the destruction of our line.”

Stannis stands. “The people don’t want Targaryen tyranny again. They want stability and peace.”

“So let us have what we want,” the Princess says quietly. “If the people are your chief concern, stop fighting us.”

It terrifies him how reasonable she sounds. When the Targaryens were first shown through to him, Stannis had thought to end their line right then and there. He had been too slow to draw his sword. The more time he spends with them, the more abhorrent it seems to destroy them.

“Your Grace,” Davos says again, growing ever more nervous.

“If you’re so concerned, Ser Davos, _you_ step outside. I am not leaving this room until an accord is reached.”

His Hand sighs, but goes to the door. Clearly he doubts his own ability to stay strong in the face of Targaryen wiles. As the door opens, Davos cries out. The Targaryens gasp and Stannis looks over to see a young man being dragged in by his Onion Knight. His eyes are violet, but he has a hint of the North about him. “Your Grace, a spy.”

“Unhand him!” Prince Viserys shouts, standing from his seat. “That is our nephew!”

Nephew?

The Princess rushes over to the lad as Davos lets go of him. She begins to fuss over him like a little mother, brushing imaginary dust from his dark blue clothes. The clothes too are northern in nature, dissimilar to the fine robes being worn by the Prince and Princess. “What are you doing here?” Princess Daenerys asks the boy, “You were supposed to wait with the guards.”

“I didn’t come all this way to be coddled by guards,” the boy grumbles. His accent is the final confirmation that he is of the North.

“You aren’t fit for non-Targaryen company yet,” the Prince says firmly. “Your gifts are developing too fast.”

“Where are you from, boy?” Stannis asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“ _Boy_?” Princess Daenerys echoes, eyebrow raised in a shocked arch. “This _boy_ is the sole surviving descendant of Rhaegar Targaryen, a strong claimant to the Iron Throne!”

“Winterfell,” the boy answers him, looking embarrassed by his aunt’s vehemence. “I was raised by Lord Stark.”

“You’re Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow.” True, it makes more sense than his ally being dishonourable towards his wife, but it speaks of years of deceit. More cunning than he has ever attributed towards Ned Stark. Those violet eyes do not lie, though. “He knew of such a strong Targaryen claim, yet never pushed it.” He turns back to Prince Viserys. “What does that tell you?”

“That he wanted to protect me,” Snow interjects, not at all intimidated by the status of those present. Targaryen blood raised Stark, the boy is unlikely to fear anything. “The Iron Throne isn’t a prize, for all that everyone’s fighting over it. It’s the seat for whoever’s mad enough to take on all the woes of this broken kingdom. My father spared me that responsibility for as long as he could.”

“Your uncle,” Stannis corrects.

“Lord Eddard Stark was a father to me, regardless of the circumstances around my birth.”

When the boy stands tall, his presence commands Stannis’ attention. It is difficult to look away, even with the other Targaryens exerting a mysterious pull on his senses. There is nothing subtle in Snow’s power. It is almost a physical sensation - _look at me, listen to me, **love me**_.

Stannis shakes his head, hoping the physical jolt will shock him back into sense. “If you truly believed your cause, you wouldn’t resort to such tricks.”

“Tricks?” The boy echoes, confused or feigning confusion.

“He means your overwhelming charm, sweet nephew,” grins Prince Viserys. “As I said to you, the gifts of your blood are developing very quickly. It is usually no trouble to learn them, to understand and accommodate them in day to day life. But you’re unusual. I blame the vampires.”

“Of course you do,” Snow says dryly. “You blame them for everything. But Lord Stannis isn’t wrong when he says that Targaryen tyranny ruined this kingdom.”

It is at the tip of Stannis’ tongue to correct the boy, but he manages to bite it back and lets Snow refer to him as a lord for now. It is a minor thing against his speech on behalf of Stannis’ cause.

“The vampires have warred just as much,” Princess Daenerys argues. “In our journey to Winterfell we saw nothing but war. The people are as tired of vampires as they ever were of dragons!”

“Perhaps,” Snow sighs. The boy spies the map table arranged in the corner of the chamber and wanders over to it thoughtfully. “Maybe the kingdom is just tired.”

“You mean…” Davos looks around at the assembly of royalty nervously, as if he had not meant to speak aloud. “Tired of _being_ a kingdom?”

“What you’re proposing is division,” Stannis realises. His mind races through the possibilities. “No one ruler. Petty fiefdoms.”

“It worked before, didn’t it?” Snow says, still looking down at the maps. “Before the dragons.”

“Are you saying I only get a piece of my kingdom?” Prince Viserys glares at his nephew. “The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen.”

Jon Snow’s eyes seem to glow as he stares back at his uncle. “The Iron Throne belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. My father. Are you going to start a war within House Targaryen? There’s been enough war.”

Prince Viserys seethes with rage. “You ungrateful little…”

Princess Daenerys places a gentle hand on her brother’s arm. The man looks at her like he is appalled. “Jon,” she says carefully. “You cannot mean to deprive us of our birthright. Not after all that we have done to protect you.”

“I would never suggest that,” the boy replies, earnestly. Despite the violet eyes, Stannis can see nothing but Stark influence in him. He is a little Ned, but infused with deadly charm. “But I think you both need to consider what your birthright actually is. And perhaps, what you’d do with it. You would each of you have happier, longer reigns over happier, long-lived people if we returned to a state of balance. One man – or woman,” he adds, looking at his aunt, “cannot hope to avoid every ill that plagues this massive kingdom. There is a North, a South, an East and a West. Four rulers. Four kingdoms.”

“Myself, you, your aunt and uncle.” Stannis sneers. Laying it out like that in his own voice makes it clear that he has nearly been taken for a fool. “Two-and-a-half dragons, one-and-a-half vampire. Hardly a state of balance, Prince Snow.”

The boy smiles and Stannis’ chest tightens at the sight. Damn these dragons. Damn them to the seven hells.

“My lord, or maybe I should say, your Grace. I’ve no intention of ruling.” Jon Snow’s fingers trace over the printed name on the map, _Winterfell_. “The Starks have always ruled the North. I think, after all this, I’d be more than happy to be their bastard once more.”

*

Eventually Theon throws his sword down on the floor in a reckless gesture that would send Ser Rodrik Cassel into a rant about weapon maintenance.

“You’re not even trying,” he sulks.

Robb shrugs. It is true, he is not trying at all. He may very well have forgotten how to. Still, the exercise gets his borrowed blood moving. It appeases his mother for him to be up and doing things again. It is easier to do these things if it stops his family from worrying.

“Maybe you’re just getting really good,” he says, trying to sound sincere.

“I _am_ really good,” Theon replies, always the fountain of modesty. “But you’re pretty good too. At least you were. Before all of this nonsense with Snow.”

With a sigh, Robb lets his sword drop as well. It clatters to the ground. They probably ought to be more respectful now that they practise with real blades. “I can’t explain it. You’ve never known a blood bond.”

“No and I’m bloody glad for it, seeing what it’s done to you. You’re not even here anymore, not really. You two were always far too close, but…” Theon shakes his head and snatches his sword up from the floor before walking away.

Picking his sword up as well, Robb follows Theon over to the weapons rack. It is a nice night in Winterfell, really. A light dusting of snow, but the moonlight is bright and some of the nightbirds are singing. The wolves howl once in a while, calling to each other from various places in the forest. Ghost and Grey Wind howl together, as inseparable as Robb wishes he and Jon had been. 

“Wonder what he’s doing right now,” Robb murmurs. It would have meant the world just to see Jon again, just one more time. Sooner or later he knows he will make the trip. Only daylight prevented him from chasing the Targaryens when they stole Jon from Winterfell. He tries not to think of the blood-rage he had flown into when he realised Jon was gone. It embarrasses him to have his emotions so out of his own control. 

There are a lot of things Robb tries not to think about.

“Targaryens marry each other, so maybe he’s shagging that pretty new aunt he’s got,” Theon says. His smirk shows he is trying to anger Robb, so it is easier for Robb to stamp down on the rage. “Or maybe he’s just another bastard to them too. Not like Rhaegar and Lyanna were married, is it? Maybe he’s cleaning Prince Viserys’ dragon feet. Bet they’re scaly.”

“Oh, shut up, Theon.”

“Alright, so maybe not. He is Rhaegar’s kid, bastard or not. That’s what your father said, yeah?”

“Yeah.” It still beggars belief. Even as it explains so much, it is so difficult to look back on their time together and think of Jon as a dragon. Robb has grown up believing the dragons were dangerous and mad. Jon, while certainly strange on occasion, has never seemed threatening in the least. 

“Well then, maybe they’re pushing his claim. Maybe we’re going to see a King Snow. That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine your brother sat on the Iron Throne?”

Robb tries, but the Jon of his imagination just looks uncomfortable in the seat. He can better imagine _Theon_ sitting there. At least he would have the arrogance of a king. “I can’t imagine Jon anywhere but here.”

His quiet confession seems to dampen Theon’s spirits. The ironborn sighs dramatically. “You need to cheer up.” The biggest understatement of the summer. “Come on, we’re going to the brothel.”

“I don’t want to,” Robb sighs, even as he lets Theon lead him towards the stables. It is easier to play along.

“You’ll thank me for it.” Before they saddle up, Theon puts his hands heavily on Robb’s shoulders and stares him in the eyes. “Listen. I’m sorry about Jon. It’s not fair. And I bet it hurts more than I can understand. But when I hurt, the absolute best thing to make me forget all about it, is a whore. We’re getting you laid tonight, Robb.”

The thought makes him feel faintly queasy. “I don’t know, Theon…”

“We are.” Theon hops onto his steed and Robb hesitates for a few moments before resigning himself to his friend’s schemes. He climbs onto his own horse and the two of them head towards a gate.

On the way, Theon plans it all. They will entertain a group of girls first, taking their time to decide who they like best. The girls are drawn to the coin of vampires and eager to give their blood to their lords, so they can feed a little before making their choice. Then Robb will have the sweetest in both blood and demeanour, while Theon picks out the naughtiest for himself.

“You need to try feeding while fucking,” Theon tells him with an air of wisdom. “You’ll never want to do anything else again.” Robb nods patiently and tries not to recall the night under the furs with Jon, his brother’s blood on his tongue while his hips worked a steady rhythm against Jon’s rear. He could spend forever that way, provided Jon was awake and aware and willing.

They reach the brothel in Wintertown without incident. Robb doubts his parents would even be upset with him about the visit these nights. After he emerged from Jon’s chamber, it seems that anything he does beyond waking up at night is cause for celebration and praise. They probably think his continued activity is a sign that he is getting better and moving on. They should know better.

Sure enough, Robb finds he and Theon draw a small crowd of willing women as soon as they walk in. Robb can see the envy from some of the other patrons, as if these girls are attracted to anything other than coin. 

“Get some wine over here,” Theon instructs the busty woman behind the bar. She rolls her eyes, but does as he asks.

“Wine?” Robb asks. What good is wine to them?

“For the girls. I bet they’ve got a thirst!” Theon squeezes the bottom of the slender blonde woman with ribbons in her hair. She squeals playfully and they tumble into one of the chairs together. Robb sits more awkwardly. Women drape themselves over his shoulders like a strange cloak. Seeing Theon play with his blonde girl only confirms to him that he cannot stomach a blonde. Too much like Lannisters, who ruined everything for him. Even Jaime’s death had not helped him forgive them. It was too little, too late.

“Do you have a thirst, my lords?” A redhead purrs, kneeling between their chairs like she cannot decide who to seduce. She stretches her neck invitingly. It is almost as red as her hair, blotchy and unappetising, Robb thinks. Theon seems to think differently, judging from the way he licks his lips at her.

“Wait for the wine,” Theon says as his hands roam all over his little blonde. “Once you’re drunk, we’ll drink.” He smirks at whatever look Robb has on his face. “What, you’ve never fed off someone who’s drunk? They might as well be wine. It’s good, trust me.”

As Theon toys with the women, the women try to toy with Robb. He is sure that they are just trying to make sure he feels comfortable, but it is rather like being choice prey. As he shifts away from adventurous hands and tries to follow the thread of what little conversation is available, he looks across the room and meets the gaze of a beautiful young man. The boy has dark curls and pale eyes, like Jon. A little smaller of frame and face not so pretty, though perhaps more delicate. 

At Robb’s startled stare, the boy smiles and makes his way over to the group. He arrives just as the wine does and snatches one of the bottles up from the tray. “Might I join you, my lords?”

“Bugger off,” Theon says, just as Robb says, “of course.”

Theon glares at him a moment, then glares at the newcomer. Then back at Robb. “Really?” His voice is incredulous. He gestures around at the women and asks again. “Really?”

“Yes,” Robb answers, grinning at Theon’s disbelief. The smile feels foreign to his face. He shifts along his seat and the woman beside him slips away to let the new arrival sit close to Robb. Some of the women leave them, migrating towards the door to greet newer customers. Those few who remain move towards Theon’s seat, seeing Robb as a bad investment of their time. 

The boy drinks wine straight from the bottle and Robb watches the swallowing of his throat. He feels a hunger pang, for the first time since Jon was in Winterfell. Maybe this one will taste better than the bland servants. “You’re a finer client than I expected to see this evening, m’lord.”

“What’s your name?”

His smile is red from the wine when he replies. “Satin, m’lord.”

“Don’t call me your lord,” Robb decides. “I want you just to call me Robb this evening.”

“Okay Robb.”

It turns out, later, that Satin does taste better than the majority of the servants. Admittedly, that could be the wine. By that point they are in a back room, Theon fucking one of the women roughly on the bed while another waits her turn to earn some coin. Robb and Satin are in the corner on a comfortable seat ignoring them completely. The boy whore sits astride Robb’s lap and though the scent of him is all wrong, the elegant stretch of his pale neck could be Jon’s by the candlelight. Robb drinks. Satin tastes how wine smells, dark and dizzying. Not Jon, but who can be?

Theon was right about the wine in the blood. It makes Robb feel light in his mind and heavy everywhere else. Once he has drunk his fill he relaxes back into the seat and watches Satin writhe in his lap. Maybe this is what he will do forever. It is not so bad. He wonders how long his parents will be content to have an heir who simply goes through the motions of existing.

There is a cheer from the other room. Robb wonders idly what it is for as he runs his fingers through Satin’s curls. He rocks his hips up lazily against Satin’s thin breeches, liking the press of the boy’s bottom against him. It seems Theon was right about an unusual amount tonight, because Robb is going to fuck this whore. Perhaps it will break the bond. Perhaps it will make things feel better, just for a little while.

A homely girl rushes into the room. A young maid from the looks of her, but Robb knows better than to assume she has never served like the other women here. She is frantic and does not apologise for the intrusion.

“M’lords, the Prince is here! He’s come to see you! The Prince his very self!”

“I don’t give a fuck if he’s here to chop my cock off, he can wait!” Theon continues to thrust into his chosen company for the evening, the redhead from earlier.

“The Prince?” Robb cannot imagine why Prince Viserys would return this far north. Does he not know that Robb despises him for taking Jon away? Robb’s mother and father had always worried about his connection to Jon, but only the Targaryen royals convinced them to try and sever the bond with distance. 

Robb does not rise, content for the moment to wonder on the news while Satin moves around in his lap. He regrets his lack of urgency moments later, when Jon walks into the room. 

There is a sense of intimate familiarity and awe-inspiring difference that both serve to punch Robb in the gut. This is the boy he has known as brother his whole life and the bond between them no longer feels like a noose around his throat being tugged. It feels like an embrace beneath the furs. At the same time, there can be no ignoring that this is a dragon. It is not just the violet eyes or the Targaryen sigil sewn onto the pocket of his expensive clothes. There is an aura about him, something commanding and persuasive. Suddenly Robb _can_ imagine him on the Iron Throne, surrounded by a court kneeling in supplication and worship.

It is only when those gleaming violet eyes narrow at him that Robb remembers his current engagement. Satin is staring at Jon as well, but has not ceased his grinding against Robb’s hard member.

“Look,” Theon says to his current conquest. He nods between Satin and Jon. “Twins.” He laughs and begins to thrust into her again, as if this interruption means nothing. Maybe to him it does.

“Jon…” Robb says, trailing off as he realises he has no idea what to say. There is so much to put words to and none of it a good excuse for his current situation.

“When your lord father said you were at the brothel, I’d assumed you were accompanying Theon as usual.” Jon looks away as he speaks, though when his gaze goes over to Theon he immediately glances back down at the floor. Still too shy about the bodies of women. “I see I was mistaken. There’s news I wanted to give you—“

Robb lifts Satin to the side, unwilling to be so cruel as to just shove him away. He stands to address his brother. His cousin. “Jon…”

“—But it can wait,” Jon finishes, as if Robb has said nothing. He stares at Robb for a while, but not at his face. At his crotch, where Robb knows he is bulging embarrassingly against his breeches. Jon’s violet glare focuses on Satin then, as if the boy whore has personally offended him. “I’ll leave you to enjoy yourselves and see you back at Winterfell.” There is nothing kind or warm in his voice.

As Jon darts back through the curtain, Robb dashes after him. “Jon, wait!” This is all wrong. This is not how their reunion is supposed to go. Robb was going to go after him, to travel all the way to King’s Landing and beg to be a part of his Kingsguard, loyal and true.

He is almost within reach of Jon’s arm as his cousin throws open the brothel door, letting in the sunlight. Robb falls back in a panic, ducking into the shade of the thickly-curtained window. He had not realised it had gone past sunrise. He squints at the painfully bright doorway and sees his brother looking back, concerned. Clearly Jon had not meant any harm. 

“I’ll see you at Winterfell,” he promises, before going out into the sunlight. Where Robb cannot follow.

*

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Jon paces his chamber feeling an utter fool. What had he expected? Yes, they had a connection, when Jon was in Winterfell giving his blood. Of course Robb has found other means of sustenance. He is a vampire full-grown now, what else could he have done?

It is the other need that really bothers Jon though. The sight of his brother swollen in his breeches due to the writhing of that stupid little boy whore. Is he not meant to love vampire ladies? Jon has always known that he could never take the place of Robb’s future wife. Even imagining it has always felt ridiculous. The most he could hope for was always that Robb would keep him for his blood and perhaps that his wife would enjoy Jon’s offering too. As a bastard it was his place in the Stark household. Everything that has happened with the Targaryens has not really changed his place in Winterfell. He either takes his bastard role or he acts the Prince elsewhere. Perhaps he should have stayed south. He could always go and stay with his aunt in the west, where she is no doubt putting the fear of fire into the Greyjoys.

“Are you going to be pacing all day?”

The voice makes him jump. Jon whirls around to see his littlest sister sitting cross-legged on his bed, grinning at his surprise.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on the prey,” he scolds her. No one knows where Arya acquired the skills, only that she is damn near invisible when she wants to be.

“You’re a dragon now. It’s allowed.”

“I was always a dragon.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t _know_ , so it doesn’t count until now.”

Jon sat down on the bed beside her and sighed. “It’s light out, Arya. You should be in bed.”

“But I wanted to see you.” She pouts. “You were barely here before you rushed off again and then it got light out.”

“At least someone wants to see me.”

He wraps an arm around her narrow shoulders and hugs her close. He missed all of the Starks while he was away. Well, maybe not Lady Catelyn. It just hurts to see life – or their version of it – has gone on without him. Robb has always been ahead of him in growing, so it stands to reason that he would mature in all possible ways while Jon was gone. It hurts though. Jon feels stupid for letting it hurt.

“Robb must have been pleased to see you.”

“His other company was much more enjoyable, I think.”

Did Robb fuck that boy after Jon left? There had been bitemarks in his throat so Robb had clearly been feeding from him. The envy is like acid in Jon’s throat. Jon belongs to Robb, so surely Robb should belong to him? In a fairer world, perhaps. 

“Your eyes get more purple when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Are too,” Arya retorts. “Look, whoever Robb’s company was, he can’t have wanted to see them more than you.”

“You’re too young to understand.” Jon cannot get the sight of Robb’s arousal out of his mind. What would his brother… _cousin_ have said if Jon had offered to take the boy whore’s place?

“What I understand is that Robb nearly died the Final Death looking after you when you got drained. Has anyone told you that?”

The words startle him, but Arya has always had a knack for exaggeration. “Robb was looking after me?”

“For so long. Mother was weeping all the time and Sansa was praying and father was all miserable and there was nothing I could do. I kept trying to drag him out, but he was still stronger than me, even with barely feeding.”

“Barely feeding?” Before everything happened, Robb was up to two feedings a day from Jon. “Did he drop to one a day?” That would be sufficient for a vampire of Robb’s age. The younger ones needed more to grow.

“More like one in… ten days! He was starving himself. He just sat here for ages.” Arya bounces past Jon to the seat by his bed, which she throws herself into. She leaned over the bed, frowning, clasping her hands together on the furs. “Like this. Holding your hand. And everyone was saying there was no way to save you. I knew there would be, but I was scared that you’d wake up and Robb would be gone instead. So we tried and tried to get him to feed or to get him out the room and moving about, but he was having none of it. Eventually he just…” She hops onto the bed again and pushes at Jon’s arm. “Lay down.”

Perplexed, Jon does as he is told. His mind is reeling from the new information. Had Robb really treated himself so badly during Jon’s ‘sleep’? Why, when he can just go and get his fix from pretty whores in Wintertown?

Arya lays down beside him, wriggling up the bed a bit so that her shoulder is even with Jon’s head. “Right, so eventually he just lay here.” She tugs Jon into her arms and presses her face to his hair. “Being weird and sniffing your hair a lot.” Her voice is muffled. “And crying blood-tears, which is probably why he had to keep washing your hair.”

Jon removes himself from the bizarre embrace. “But, wasn’t I asleep for many moons?” 

“Yep.” Arya nods. “And Robb was here the _whole_ time. He only left at the absolute last minute, when the dragons forced him out. He came to see me and Sansa and mother and said he had to eat something. It was like he was sleepwalking or something, not really awake and sensible. He said they were trying to help you, but it was like he didn’t know whether it was too good to be true. Sansa said you could see him hoping and fearing at the same time.”

“But nobody said goodbye other than father,” Jon says, trying to establish the truth. He still cannot call Lord Stark his uncle. 

“They stole you away! Father was with them, so we thought it would be okay. Then we heard a carriage outside. Mother went to the window and she didn’t say anything, but Robb knew it was you. Me and him, we both ran to your chamber and you were gone. Father said it had to be done, that you had another life to lead away from vampires.”

“What did Robb do?”

At that question, his little sister falls silent. She runs her fingers through the furs on the bed. Her reaction worries Jon more than anything she could have said.

“Arya, what did he do?”

“He went absolutely crazy,” she whispers fearfully. “He shoved me out the way really hard.” She puts a hand to the back of her head. “I hit the doorframe and nearly cracked my skull. I punched him so hard for that later. But he ran off through the castle down to the doors and he was out at the gates when the sun was rising.” She clenches her little fists. “Those dragons really timed it well.”

“So he came back in,” Jon says. His heart is pounding as though all this is happening right now. He saw Robb though. He knows he is okay. Better than okay, thanks to that whore.

“Well, yeah, but he wasn’t happy. He went into another blood-rage.”

“A blood-rage?” There are rumours that their father experienced a blood-rage during the war, but he has never spoken of it. The deceased King Robert killed Jon’s real father in a blood-rage and was prone to them, if the tales are true. But such things are uncommon to most vampires. Only the Greyjoys and the Cleganes are known for frequent dangerous rages. “Wait, what do you mean _another_?”

“He had one when you got bit,” Arya explains. “He almost tore the Kingslayer to tiny pieces. That one was fair though. I wish I’d had a blood-rage so I could have joined in. He deserved everything he got.”

“Arya…” 

“The Kingslayer almost killed you!” 

She looks righteously furious and it warms Jon’s heart. He cannot imagine how he would have felt in their shoes, if he had found one of his dear siblings near death. He would rather be the one harmed.

“So… what did Robb do in this second blood-rage? There were no Lannisters around to tear into tiny pieces.”

“Robb blamed father for conspiring to send you away. They had a fight.”

“What?!”

The thought terrifies him, but Arya waves a hand dismissively. “Robb was weak from his time at your side. Feeding had made him a little stronger again, but nothing compared to father. He’s a lot better now. You should have seen him before you woke. He was all thin and haggard, like he’d been kept in a dungeon.”

Jon is so struck by the image that he almost sobs. It comes out as a small sound of distress instead, a quiet _oh…_

Arya pats him on the arm. “He’ll be better now you’re home.”

“He seemed better.” Jon hopes that whore gave Robb the best damn lay of his existence. The boy has no idea how lucky he is to be earning his coin with Robb. 

“Well he’s not been better until now,” Arya says. “He’s been pretending, but we all know he’s just faking it. He feeds, he trains with Theon, but it’s all just doing what people tell him. It’s like he doesn’t care about anything.” She grins and squeezes Jon’s arm. “I bet he will now though.”

Lady Catelyn throws the door open. When she sees Arya she huffs dramatically. Jon can see she has been worrying. “There you are! Young lady, I have been searching this castle top to bottom for you!”

“You should’ve guessed I’d be here,” Arya groans, rolling her eyes. 

“Bed! Now! The sun is up, what were you thinking?”

The little girl huffs, but she knows her mother is right. She should have been abed ages ago. Arya jumps up and presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek. “It’s good to have you home, brother.” She laughs. “Cousin, even!”

She scurries out of the door, under her exasperated mother’s arm. “Arya, slow down! Someone might have left a curtain undrawn!” Lady Catelyn sighs and looks back at Jon. “How long do you intend to stay?”

It is a polite question, cold and civil. It has always been this way between them, but Jon knows he could have had a worse upbringing than the one Lady Catelyn permitted him. There are places in Westeros that destroy bastards. He is a prince now, but the way Lady Stark looks at him makes him feel as though his royalty is a lie.

“It depends on Robb.”

Lady Catelyn sighs once more. “Permanently, then. Your fa—“ She catches herself, barely. “Your uncle will be pleased.”

“Did you know?” Jon asks. It has been one question running around his head since he woke. Perhaps longer, though it faded every time he left the dreamscape. “Or did Lord Stark keep you in the dark as well?”

“I’m his _wife_ ,” she replies sharply. “I was a willing ally in his deceit. It would have meant your death to be found out sooner. There were times when I wondered if it was such a high price to pay, but… Ned loves you as well as any of the children I gave him. You’re a prince. If you wanted Winterfell, I suppose you could have taken it by now. So I won’t begrudge you your place here. Not if it means seeing Robb smile.” She folds her arms and gives him the look of a mother prescribing a chore. “You will feed him, won’t you?” It is more command than question. “He’s been going hungry too often.”

“I’ll offer all I can, my lady.”

She nods and leaves him alone with his thoughts. It is only then that he remembers she is a queen now, not a mere lady. Still, she had not scolded him for his incorrect address. That is small progress, at least. Perhaps there is hope for them.

Jon realises then, with an odd feeling, that he has just been given her blessing. To think, all it took was crowning her husband King of the North.

*

Robb dozes a little, but spends much of his day awake. Even with the walls of the brothel between him and the sun, his skin itches. It is not natural for a vampire to be awake at this time. 

Theon slumbers without a care in the world. After he was done with his whores he had listened to Robb complain for a while, but that had worn out his sympathy. _Still think you should have slept with Satin,_ he had grumbled before turning over to sleep.

Robb thinks on that a lot as he stares at the ceiling. Satin had been willing and wanton. He had also been inconveniently astute. _Is that who you need me to be, m’lord?_ Satin had crawled back into his lap as soon as he had Robb back in the dark room. _He seems more innocent than me, but I can act it. He’s your half-brother, isn’t he? The Bastard of Winterfell? Don’t worry about judgement here, m’lord. We’ve open minds for open purses._

Well Robb had bought a mind so open it was liable to spill everywhere. After seeing Jon he had not been able to think of bedding Satin no matter how much Theon and his girls tried to goad him on, but that had not stopped him from paying the boy more than enough for his time. He is embarrassed, more than anything. He feels like he has been the one sleeping all these moons and he is only now waking up and remembering how to feel like himself.

But nothing has really changed, has it? Or rather, everything has changed apart from the possibility that he and Jon can be together. Robb likes to think that Jon loves him as more than family, but if he does not then it hardly matters whether he is brother or cousin. 

Is he even planning to stay? The Targaryens went south to claim the throne from Stannis with fire or persuasion. The man did not stand a chance. They must have taken it, so what does Jon need from Winterfell?

Gods be good, he came all this way for Robb.

As soon as the sun is setting Robb rolls off of the bed, exhausted from lack of sleep but eager for home. He shakes Theon but the ironborn is stubborn and lazy, refusing to budge. 

“Fine. I’ll go on my own. Last time I join you anywhere.”

The brothel is loud as he departs, one man leading a toast for ‘the winterborn dragon prince’. Robb smiles at that. He had thought that as word spread the northern people might take offence to being misled about Jon’s true nature, but it seems they accept him just as much as they did when he was thought to be mortal.

“Prince Robb!” He has not been called _that_ before. One of the men, a large and red-faced man with a flagon of ale in his hand, strides over and claps him on the shoulder. “A grand time to be northern, eh?”

“Why tonight over other nights?” He is desperate to get back to Winterfell, but curiosity moves his lips.

“You haven’t heard, m’lord, I mean, my prince?”

“Heard what? And I’m no prince.”

“That’s just it though, m’lor—my prince! You are! Your brother got the North back! Realm of the North, all under the rule of King Eddard Stark, your royal father!”

“What?” That must have been the news Jon wanted to give him. “How?” 

“A silver tongue, must be,” the man says with a grin.

“Nah.” Another skinnier man in guard clothes pipes up after taking a sip of his drink. “Kingdom was in pieces anyway. Just makes sense to split it up rather than keep warring, don’t it?”

The group begin a lively debate about the division of the kingdom, trying to decide whether it was Jon’s political cunning that brought them this gift or if it was inevitable. As Robb leaves a couple of the men are saying that the dragon seduced Stannis Baratheon into signing away the kingdom. Just the thought of it makes Robb feel a little sick.

His ride back to Winterfell takes far too long. It maddens him to think of all the time spent waiting for Jon to wake, only to be indisposed the moment his brother is with him.

 _Cousin_ , he reminds himself. He must not keep forgetting that. It suits them far better to be cousins. Cousins are frequently taken as consorts, kept for their blood and the pleasure of trueborn lords. Jon is a prince now, though. As a bastard of House Stark his blood belonged to them. Now, Robb is not sure he can ask him for anything. If the men are speaking true then they are both princes, but are all princes equal? He cannot possibly ask for things to go back to the way they were when Jon was only a bastard of House Stark. That would not be fair.

He leaves his horse for Hodor to take back to the stables and rushes into the keep with such haste that he almost runs into his father. Lord Stark grasps Robb’s shoulder with a strong hand.

“Did Jon find you?”

It would be a lie to say no. An easily-discovered lie. Robb tries to swallow his shame. “He… did, yes. But we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

His father eyes him strangely. “You didn’t get a chance to talk? Jon finally comes home and you didn’t speak to him when he went looking for you?”

“I was…busy.” He cannot meet his father’s eyes. He was at a brothel. It will be very clear what led him to be busy. 

The hand on his shoulder slides away. His father says nothing, but Robb can still feel his disappointment. As soon as he meets his gaze he can see it too.

“Is it true what everyone’s saying?” Robb is eager to change the subject. “That Jon has somehow handed us the North?”

“Yes.” His father makes a face as though he has been asked to complete some unpleasant chore. “I’m now King Eddard, can you believe it? And you, you’re a prince. I think we’ll need to step up your lessons. I had you training to be a lord and warden, not a king. Still, I’m sure Jon meant well. Better us than dragons, I suppose. Sansa’s been squealing since she found out. I’ve heard the word ‘princess’ more today than I’ve ever heard it before in my life.”

Robb laughs at that. He can imagine Sansa’s glee. Arya is probably indifferent. “I’m going to find Jon. Was he given his old chamber?” 

“Aye. His white direwolf has been sitting sentry outside the door. I thought Jon was with you, but if not he’s probably in there. He seems a little confused about when he should be sleeping at the moment.”

“I’ll go check on him.”

He steps past his father. His upper arm is grabbed in a tight grip. Robb could break free, having recovered from much of his self-inflicted weakness, but out of respect to his father he stops where he is.

“I won’t pretend it doesn’t unsettle me a little, knowing how you two feel. I blame myself in part for letting you feed off him over all others. But it’s not just a blood bond. If you were man and woman, a marriage between House Stark and House Targaryen would be heralded as the greatest match of our times.”

“Stannis would probably go mad.”

His father smiles. “Probably. My point is, you’re both princes. You will need to wed, both of you. You hold too much power not to. If something happens to me and you, there would be no end of opportunists seeking to forge a claim on the North through whatever means lay available to them. A son of yours would be undisputed claimant. In the interests of protecting your siblings, you have to take a wife and make an heir.”

“You’re saying me and Jon can’t…” Robb’s voice sticks in his throat. “That we can’t be together.” He sounds all of ten years of age and he hates it. Some prince.

“No.” His father puts both hands on Robb’s shoulders then and looks him in the eye. “I want my sons – that means both of you – to do the right thing. But I also want you both to be happy. I’m going to trust that you and Jon can find a balance. And hopefully a pair of understanding women to be your wives.”

Robb is too ecstatic about having his father’s blessing to dwell on the troubling notion of weddings. He thanks his father profusely and is halfway to Jon’s chamber before remembering that he does not yet know if his cousin even loves him in the same way. Blood bonds are the stuff of romantic legend, but it does not necessarily follow that Jon loves him as more than a brother or cousin. Then there is the familiar old fear rising up in him, as it has ever since Jon was taken from them – What if the bond is broken? Jon went through so much. It could have torn their connection. Perhaps Robb is the only one afflicted with this desire and need.

Ghost perks his head up as Robb approaches. Grey Wind is curled up against him as usual, though he stretches to butt his head against Robb’s leg as he passes.

“Alright you two, move. I’ve got to see him.”

He nudges the wolves with his foot. They both amble to their feet and stretch languidly before moving the necessary couple of steps. Robb pushes the door open, unused to knocking when visiting Jon. 

The sight of his sleeping brother hits him like a punch in the gut. 

He can feel blood tears welling, can see the darkness in the corners of his eyes. Jon is sleeping on the bed, under his furs, looking exactly as he had all those moons that he had been dying. Even though Robb _knows_ he is fine, can hear his heartbeat for gods’ sake, the sight makes him mournful. He has watched this for too long for it not to stir all manner of devastation within him.

Robb wipes at his eyes and takes slow steps over to the bed. He tries to focus on Jon’s heartbeat and his breaths, regular and steady. But his mind will not accept the evidence of any sense other than his eyes. It has seen this before. It knows what this is. This is death. This is loss.

Sinking down into the chair at the bedside feels like lying down to die. Robb’s hands shake as he reaches out to clasp Jon’s. His cousin’s skin is warm and Robb tries to take comfort in that, but he is so still. He bends to rest his head on Jon’s hand, trying to gather his thoughts. 

A hand strokes through his hair. “Robb?”

Jon’s voice cuts through the grief like candlelight through darkness. Robb startles upright, wondering how foolish he must look.

His cousin frowns at the sight of him, looking worried. “What’s wrong?” He is immediately wide awake, sitting upright and licking his thumb to wipe the blood tears from Robb’s face. 

“I thought…” Gods, he feels so childish. “You were so still. I know you’re fine, but… but… for a long time you weren’t. And when you weren’t I sat here. Trying to keep you alive while everyone said you were dying and I _knew_ …” Tears spill again, crimson over Jon’s pale knuckles. The rest of his words can only escape in a whisper. “I knew they were right.”

“Oh, Robb.” Jon tugs him into an embrace, their heads pillowed against each other’s shoulder. “I’m right here. You can hear my heart, can’t you?”

He can. It is a beautiful rhythm. “I know, I know you’re alright. I’m just being stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jon draws back and sighs before wetting his thumb to wipe away Robb’s tears again. “It’s thanks to your care that I lasted long enough for the dragons to revive me. They did revive me though, so let’s try and be happy about it.”

“You’ve no idea how happy I am about it,” Robb says fervently. “I wanted to be here when you woke though.”

“You just were.” Jon says it with a smile. Robb is about to protest that he did not mean this time, but then, does it really matter? His cousin pats him on the arm. “You know what’ll make you feel better?” He tugs aside the collar of his nightshirt to expose his neck. “Here. Drink. It’s been too long.”

The Kingslayer’s bite has faded almost beyond visibility, but Robb still knows it is there. He remembers finding Jon drained of life as though it were only yesterday. He wants to taste him again more than anything, but he is afraid as much as he is hungry. His hesitation takes the smile from Jon’s lips.

His cousin pulls his shirt collar closed. “Sorry. I forgot you probably sated your appetite before you came back.” His voice is brittle and bitter now. “Do whores taste more like servants or dragons?”

“No one tastes like you. And it wasn’t…whatever you thought it was. I didn’t lay with him. Theon will tell you that.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “With such a virtuous witness, how could I ever doubt you?” He asks sarcastically.

“Look, everyone’s been worrying about me. Theon thought, in his usual way, that sex might cure all ills.”

“Did it?” Jon’s voice is quiet. He is no longer looking at Robb, but at the furs, which he worries between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t know. I didn’t do it.”

That draws Jon’s gaze back to his face. Robb is not sure his cousin believes him. “You didn’t? Really? Why not? The boy was pretty enough and clearly willing to take that beast you were keeping in your breeches.”

If he were mortal, Robb’s face would certainly be red by now. “He wasn’t you. I thought… with you so far away from me, that maybe he could pretend to be for a time. But then you were there.” He watches Jon’s face, but his cousin keeps his feelings from showing. “You’re not stupid, Jon. You must know you’ve always been the one for me. You always will be. If that’s not something you want, if it’s all in my head, then just say so and I’ll never bother you with it or—“

He is interrupted by Jon’s lips covering his own. It is not a forceful kiss but a warm, gentle exploration. It feels natural and right, if a bit slow. Robb is the first to venture his tongue across the divide, running the tip gently along the middle of Jon’s tongue. His cousin makes a small sound of surprise and Robb realises with a sudden thrill that his cousin has never been kissed. Robb slides his arm around to rub a hand up and down Jon’s back as he explores his mouth. Jon has always been a fast learner. Robb feels him start to tease with his own tongue before he has to pull away for breath. They both stare at each other, eyes wide with excitement, Jon panting for air.

“It’s what I want,” Jon says breathlessly. “It’s what I came home for.” He looks away, shy again. “I used to have fantasies of you taking me as your consort. I wanted to kneel by your table at the royal feast and be your dinner for the evening.”

The thought is stirring in various ways. Robb’s hunger starts to make itself known, but his lust has begun to build too. “Can I take a prince as a consort?” He asks, barely able to believe this is happening.

“I don’t see why not.” Jon smiles at him. Gods, how Robb has missed his smile. “I’m willing. More than willing. When you have to wed, I can be hers too.”

Robb growls, his fangs lengthening. “You’ll be _mine_.”

Jon’s hand caresses Robb’s cheek before he slips a thumb in between Robb’s lips to toy with the tip of a fang. The sensation of it makes Robb groan aloud. His arousal starts to overtake the hunger in severity as Jon’s thumb rubs up and down the sharp, sensitive fang. It sends shivers through him. “If I’m to be yours,” Jon whispers, “I’d have you claim me now.”

He manages to fight his eyelids open again. They had fluttered shut at Jon’s gentle ministrations. His cousin looks nervous, but eager too. Much the same as Robb feels. Though he aches with the desire to be in the bed with his cousin straight away, Stark blood forces him to ask. “Are you sure? As the blood bond is at the moment, we can ignore it. Lead an existence with more honour. You could wed. Be the darling prince of dragons and vampires alike.” Robb knows he cannot go on ignoring their connection, but why trap Jon in the same fate?

But Jon smiles and kisses Robb again. When they part he murmurs, “You know what my Aunt Dany said about me?”

He shakes his head.

“She said only a true Targaryen could fall so hopelessly in love with their kin. I can’t ignore this, Robb. I missed everyone while I slept, but you’re the one I asked for, over and over. You’re the one I needed to see again above all else. You kept me going in that place of dreams just as much as my aunt and uncle. I love you. We’ll just have to find what honour we can in that.”

They gaze at each other a few moments more before moving in for more kisses. There is not much more to say. Their kissing becomes more heated, greedier as they try to taste as much of each other as possible. Jon has to pull back for breath otherwise Robb would not stop. He tugs at Robb’s clothes.

“You need to lose these.”

Robb nods and immediately sets to disrobing, shrugging off his fur and unfastening his riding leathers with haste. He kicks his boots away and only hesitates when he is at the laces of his breeches. He looks at Jon. “These too?” 

Jon nods. “Please.”

The plea boosts Robb’s confidence and he strips down to his smallclothes. “Seems a little uneven,” he points out, nodding towards Jon’s nightshirt as he lifts the furs and blankets on the bed.

“It’s not,” Jon says softly with a slight smile. Robb does not understand quite what he means until he is in the bed with him.

“You aren’t wearing any smallclothes,” he says breathlessly. He can feel himself stiffening and as their bare legs tangle together and bring them closer, he can feel Jon’s manhood hardening against him. “Oh gods…”

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Jon admits, grinning. His hand goes to Robb’s hair, stroking through it. “But I’m glad for the company I’ve found.”

“I’m gonna take these off,” Robb decides. He reaches down under the blankets and wriggles the fabric down his thighs. The movement brings him down almost level with Jon’s hardness and seeing it puts a wicked idea in his mind. After Robb has kicked off his smallclothes, he runs his tongue up Jon’s length without warning.

His cousin cries out unexpectedly loud. Robb flinches and looks up at Jon, who has clapped a hand over his mouth and is looking at him with wide eyes. He parts his fingers to speak. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to be so loud. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Okay. I’m going to do it again.” He grins. “Behave.”

Jon nods. Robb laps at the head this time as he wraps his hand loosely around the shaft. Jon’s cock is thinner than his, but about the same length. It is so hot in his palm it feels like it burns. Jon moans constantly, pretty little noises that get louder and louder until Robb is forced to back off again. Jon quietens down, eyes fluttering open to gaze down at Robb. “Sorry, was I too loud again?”

“You can’t seem to help yourself.” It is impossible to be annoyed though. Jon’s loud and vocal pleasure is firing up Robb’s blood. “It’s good to know I’m doing it right.” He crawls back up Jon’s body to kiss him again. Then he moves to kissing his neck. He can feel the blood pulsing beneath the skin.

Jon’s hands rub up and down Robb’s back. “Feed if you’re hungry. It’s all for you.”

“Not yet.” Their cocks brush against each other, drawing a moan from them both. Jon is louder. Who would have thought it of the quiet, solemn Bastard of Winterfell? Robb wastes no time in aligning their hips to get that feeling again over and over. 

His cousin is just as eager, arching up against him, trying to work with Robb to get as much of their skin touching as possible. Robb wonders if he feels as cold to Jon as Jon feels hot to him. He rests an elbow on the pillow by Jon’s head so that he can lean down and kiss him as they rut together. Jon’s moans are constant music for their coupling, only muffled by Robb’s kisses. The pleasure builds higher and higher. Robb can hear Jon’s heart pounding, his blood rushing… he realises he is grazing his fangs over Jon’s lips.

Jon puts a hand to the back of Robb’s head and guides him to his neck. “Drink, Robb.”

This time he cannot deny him. His body is confused, wanting everything all at once. His fangs rest against flesh for only a moment before pressing in, gliding in easily as they have done a thousand times or more. A sense of security washes over him as Jon’s blood hits his tongue. It is the taste of home. Jon sighs blissfully, wrapping his legs around Robb’s body as they rub together. It is as Robb is suckling at his neck that Jon spills with a broken cry, his seed hot and wet against Robb’s skin.

Robb could swear blind he can taste Jon’s pleasure in the blood. There is a spice to it making him even more delicious than he remembered. He feels delirious with sensation, drinking the sweetest nectar while his manhood throbs and slips against Jon’s body. 

Jon’s hand wraps around him, his breathy voice caressing Robb’s ear. “That’s it, Robb. That’s it. I’m all yours.”

He pulls free of Jon’s throat as he spills, releasing his cool seed over Jon’s belly. He might have cried out. Certainly there was a sound. His eyes are clenched shut as Jon gently touches him through his climax. Soon his cousin’s hands glide up Robb’s body, leaving a wonderful trail of heat in their wake. Only when he cups Robb’s face can Robb open his eyes. The contentment on Jon’s face mirrors his own and he leans down for another long, slow, loving kiss. Then he turns his attention to Jon’s neck. He licks it clean, then intends to nip his finger to rub blood into the wound for healing. A better idea strikes him. He sinks his fangs into his lip as Jon watches. When the blood starts to well up, Robb puts his lips to Jon’s neck and kisses the bitemark slowly, rubbing his lips over the skin until the healing process begins. When he draws back to admire his handiwork, Jon licks the blood from his mouth. 

They settle back on the bed together in a close embrace, legs entwined. “Who knew you’d be so loud?” Robb teases.

Jon scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who roared when he spilled. I half expect the guards to come running in any minute.”

Nobody interrupts them, though. They are left to learn each other anew for the next few nights, reinforcing a blood-bond that grows stronger than any steel. 

*

“Have you seen Jon?”

Catelyn huffs and continues brushing down Robb’s finest fur. “Don’t tell me that with a blood-bond, all the gifts of his dragon blood and all of your senses, you two can actually lose each other.”

“He said he’d be here,” Robb says nervously, watching her in the looking glass as she bustles about him. He has to look his absolute finest today. When she steps back to assess her efforts, she can see that nothing else needs to be done. Her son must be the envy of all other Houses. Margaery Tyrell will surely weep for joy when she sees this man awaiting her at the end of the aisle.

“You look wonderful, Robb,” Catelyn gushes, wrapping her arms around her son.

“Thanks, mother.” He untangles himself from her embrace. “I need to find Jon though. He was…distant, last night.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He knows that.

“Mother—“

“Robb, I don’t want to hear about it!” Like any mother, she is resigned to his happiness. There is nothing she will not tolerate for him. If Jon Targaryen is to be his consort, then so be it. That does not mean she _ever_ wants to hear of the two of them alone. It stays out of her sight and out of her mind.

“I’m not marrying without him there,” Robb says firmly. “It needs his blessing.”

Catelyn holds her fangs back. Of course Jon is to be consulted about Robb’s wedding. Never mind that the whole arrangement has relied on Cat’s planning from the start. Never mind that she is the only reason her son got a betrothal. Honestly, if not for her involvement the two of them would never have fulfilled their obligations to their families. They would have just stayed in their chamber being… She does not want to think about it.

“We should look for him.” Robb fidgets nervously with his collar. 

“No, you need to go to the godswood.” She holds a hand up to stop him from protesting. “I will find him and bring him to you. But it’s important that you get there soon. Guests will already be around and it will serve you well to mingle before the ceremony.” She, Sansa and Septa Mordane had taken the maids out there at the setting of the sun to arrange chairs and ribbons. It is not so grandly decorated as the hall where the celebrations will take place afterwards, but it has a sacred beauty that nearly brought Sansa to tears when they were done.

“You promise you’ll find him?” Robb asks.

“I know you’ll cause no end of trouble if I don’t. Go on, get to your place and I’ll bring Jon to his.”

She does not search for Jon. What would be the point, when she understands the young man so barely? She searches for Arya and finds her fighting her dress in her room. 

“Mother, I look stupid,” she whines as Catelyn enters her chamber.

“Nonsense.” She certainly looks wild, ribbons every which way and her white dress scuffed at the bottom. No doubt she has been running around in it. “You just need a little tidying up is all.” Cat gets to fussing over her in the same way she had fussed over Robb. She wants them to be presentable. The Tyrells are one of the most pleasant and tolerant Houses in all of Westeros, but that is no excuse to look shabby alongside them. “I don’t suppose you know where your cousin is?”

Arya looks hunted, eyes darting up to meet hers before darting quickly away. “He’s not going to the wedding.”

“He has to.”

“But it’ll break his heart to see Robb marry Margaery.”

“Less than it will break Robb’s heart to marry Margaery without Jon present.”

Her daughter worries at her lip nervously. “I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

“And I promised Robb I would find Jon for him.”

Frowning, twisting her lips and shifting from foot to foot, Arya eventually huffs. “Fine. But only because of Robb. He’s in the library, in the corner round behind the books so you don’t see him when you look in. He’s really upset though.”

Catelyn finishes smoothing out Arya’s hair and pats her on the back. “I’ll talk to him. You get yourself down to the godswood. You’ll be late, otherwise.”

“Yes mother,” Arya groans, dragging her feet as she trudges out of the room. One would think she is attending a funeral rather than a wedding.

Cat wastes no time in heading to the library. She hopes all this bustling around has not ruffled her own appearance too much. It would be just her luck if all this effort to make the children look smart ends up making her look a mess. She neatly sidesteps the wolf that runs past her in the courtyard. Summer from the looks of things, Bran’s wolf. And there is Shaggydog, chasing after him. It took her a while to learn the difference between them all. Only Sansa’s Lady and Jon’s Ghost stood out from the start, Lady due to her domestic behaviour and Ghost due to his white fur and lack of sound.

It is Ghost she sees when she enters the library, prowling around by stacks of books. “Is that animal supposed to be in here?” She asks.

The room is almost silent, but she can sense a mortal presence. 

“Jon Targaryen, I asked you a question.”

He slinks out from behind the bookshelves, a face like thunder. “Maester Luwin said it would be okay. Ghost behaves himself.”

She folds her arms. “You’re supposed to be at the wedding.” He has dressed for it, she can see. The young man wears his finest clothes, given to him by his Targaryen relatives. This change of heart must be very much last minute then.

“I’m not going to go,” he says, sullen but trying to sound collected. He wants to seem all grown up, but he knows he is behaving childishly.

“Robb needs you there.” For all that she might wish he did not.

“He’ll have his bride there. The famous beauty, Margaery Tyrell. Beloved by vampire and mortal alike. I think Sansa wishes _she_ was marrying her.”

“You’ve heard a lot of her from Sansa then?” Cat walks past him and sits down at the table he must have been at. History books lie open all over the surface. He is an avid reader, this young dragon. Bran and Sansa are as well. 

“Since she got to Winterfell she’s all Sansa talks about.”

“And what does Robb talk about?” Catelyn asks as she leafs idly through the book in front of her. Highgarden, she realises. This section of the book is about House Tyrell.

Jon shrugs. “Oh, you know. Same things he always talks about. He’s adamant nothing will change, but…” He takes a seat opposite her. “I don’t know why you ask. You don’t care.”

“I care about my son. As do you, apparently.” She closes the book and the thump of the hard cover echoes in the room. “Margaery Tyrell is easily one of the greatest beauties in Westeros, only rivalled by the likes of the imprisoned Cersei Lannister, your Aunt Daenerys and your sister Sansa. She is clever, she is gracious and she is kind. She has asked after you often, hoping to make your acquaintance before the wedding. Why do you think that is?”

The young man shrugs again. There can be no way he is this sullen when he is with Robb. Most likely she will never understand what draws her son to him. “Pity? Curiosity? Not many Stark bastards turn out to be Targaryen princes and give it all up for a chance to…” He trails off, glancing at her nervously before looking back at the table. The end of that sentence was not designed for her ears, it seems. She is grateful for his restraint.

“Robb has spoken of nothing but you to this woman. This prize of a woman, the most accomplished and sought-after bride in Westeros and Robb looks at her as nothing but an ear for his tales of you. I honestly thought her family would reject the match after their first meeting. Who would wed a man so in love with his male cousin?” She clasps her hands together atop the book. “Apparently Margaery Tyrell. There must be something about Winterfell that she loves.”

“Probably Robb. Maybe she knows she can win his heart.”

Catelyn laughs, which seems to startle Jon. “I wish that were true. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for becoming the key to Robb’s happiness. But Margaery didn’t bat an eyelid at the truth behind you two. I think she asked more questions than even Robb was willing to answer. If she loved Robb, wouldn’t she show some hesitation or a hint of envy? She didn’t. She knows Robb loves you, yet here she is. She seems full of surprises, that girl.”

“They’ll have the bedding tonight,” Jon says, looking out of the window so as to avoid looking at Cat.

“Yes, they will. They’ll bed a good many nights until Margaery is with child.”

The young prince actually puts a hand to his mouth as though he is going to be ill. Catelyn tires of this foolishness.

“Grow up, Jon. Robb loves you. He would rather be bedding you, gods help us all. But he knows he owes House Stark an heir. He has found a good, tolerant woman to help him. You have no right to make this difficult for either of them. If you truly love Robb, you would be at his side, soothing his nerves and encouraging him.”

He glares at her, but she can see she has been heard. “I love Robb more than anything. Why do you think I can’t go?”

“It will go ahead whether you’re there or not.” She hopes. “Do you think I’m here out of affection for you? I’m here because Robb begged me to find you. He’s fretting. You have to go to him. Now.”

Jon sighs at the window once more, then stands from the table. “Well I’ve always said he’ll have what he wants.”

Cat stands and follows him out of the library. “I think this marriage is going to be much smoother than yours. Robb already hates your wife-to-be and she hasn’t even set a date to arrive in Winterfell yet.” Queen Daenerys has arranged for him to wed Lady Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Isles.

“He’s going to punch Theon if he calls me a salt-husband one more time,” Jon says.

“Greyjoy’s jealous of the love you’ve found and the matches you’ve made. He’ll find his own soon. Until that time he’s best ignored. Tell Robb that.”

As they approach the godswood together, Catelyn takes Jon’s arm so as to seem proper. Jon looks alarmed for a moment, but takes to it quickly, escorting her to her seat in the front row. Robb is standing near Margaery’s family, who are all seated and waiting. He seems to be stuck in conversation with Olenna Tyrell, the old ‘Queen of Thorns’. When he sees Jon and Catelyn take their seats, he mouths ‘thank you’ to his mother. He soon manages to disentangle himself from socialising with the soon to be in-laws and walks over to them. He presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says again. He raises an eyebrow at Jon, but is smiling all the same. “Oi you, where have you been hiding?” He is a different creature to the nervous boy Catelyn brushed down not long ago. Does Jon’s presence reassure him so?

“I was off panicking,” Jon says, looking embarrassed. He glances sidelong at Catelyn. “Probably for no reason.”

Robb’s gaze softens and he squeezes Jon’s shoulder. He will not do anything inappropriate in front of all these guests, but still Catelyn worries. “It’s just a wedding and a bedding,” he says, quiet so that the people around them do not hear. “Arrangements made for honour. Not love. You know that.”

Jon musters a smile and squeezes his brother’s hand. “She’s lucky all the same.”

For all the drama and the rivalries of the heart, the wedding is a beautiful affair. Margaery Tyrell is utterly resplendent. Cat dabs her eyes with a handkerchief as Ned wraps an arm around her shoulders. For a time she lives in a world where her son means the vows he says so earnestly to the mother of his future children. She must mutter something as Ned whispers into her ear, “they respect one another and tolerate unpleasant truths. That is better grounds for a marriage than most.”

Afterwards in the Great Hall, Robb sits with Jon on his right and Margaery on his left.

“We haven’t had the pleasure,” Margaery says brightly, leaning past Robb to shake Jon’s hand. “But I have heard so much about you. I’d be honoured to be your cousin, Prince Jon.”

Jon nods, shy and struggling to articulate his ambivalence on the issue. “You, uh… you look very lovely.”

Catelyn rolls her eyes and continues to drip blood from her wrist into Rickon’s goblet for him. He sat very patiently in the wedding and made her rather proud.

“I’ve a suggestion that I’d hoped to run by you and Robb, regarding the delicacies of our arrangement.”

Cat glances over briefly, curious. Both Robb and Jon look confused and wary. “Go on,” her son says.

“Sansa has explained everything to me. The last thing I want is to be a bother. So I thought that perhaps after me and Robb have done what’s necessary, I might nip out and rest in your sister’s chamber. She’s a darling girl who’s insisted on offering. Then you two can… reconnect.”

Cat wonders who is more surprised at the girl’s forwardness – Robb, Jon, or herself. Rickon nudges her, alerting her to the fact that she has spilled blood outside of his goblet. 

“I… I’m alright with that,” Jon says hesitantly. “If you are, I mean.”

Robb nods dumbly and Princess Margaery smiles brighter than the moon. “Wonderful. I might be a little hungry after. I wondered if… I mean, you have dragon blood. I hope it’s not too presumptuous to confess a certain curiosity…”

“That’s up to Robb,” Jon says firmly.

Cat watches as her son looks between the two of them. “I’ll um, I’ll have to think about it,” he says. He clearly wants to agree, but at the same time he is so possessive of his cousin. “Me and Jon will discuss it later.”

“You can discuss it while we’re bedding, if you like,” Margaery says sweetly. Jon almost spits wine everywhere, but the princess speaks to him as if he had not reacted at all. “You will be there, won’t you? I’d assumed you would be, just to check I’m treating him well.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Jon is blushing bright red, an affliction of embarrassment that vampires never have to endure.

Immediately Robb turns to him and they exchange a series of whispers. Margaery lets them, smiling warmly at Catelyn who manages to return a smile that she hopes is devoid of shock. She should not show she has been eavesdropping. The girl had seemed so sweet and demure!

“My cousin will be there,” Robb says eventually. “If only to guarantee my audience when he beds his own wife.”

“Very sensible, my prince,” Margaery says seriously. Cat wonders if Robb realises she is humouring him. She glances over. Jon is watching the girl with a gaze as unwavering as that wolf of his. He will not let her manipulate Robb, that much is clear, no matter what leniency or depravity she offers. Catelyn relaxes. Let the minx do what she will.

She chuckles to herself at the strange path her sympathies have taken.

Later that night, just before sunrise, the celebrations have all died down. The children are abed and Robb has taken his wife and his consort to his chamber. She does not think about it, but she will be checking in Sansa’s chamber as soon as the sun has set.

Ned pulls her into an embrace from behind as she is unlacing her skirts. He kisses at her neck. “What had you laughing to yourself at dinner, my lovely queen? You seemed in a world of your own.”

“Jon Targaryen might be the only thing saving Robb from Margaery Tyrell’s wiles.”

He frowns at the unusual comment from her. “I think you meant that the other way round, Cat.”

Again she laughs. “I think I did, before tonight.”

They go to bed as the sun rises over Winterfell. Catelyn dreams of her husband bringing an infant prince home to Winterfell. In the dream, she manages to love him as her own.

At sunset, she finds Margaery Tyrell sound asleep curled up with Sansa. Jon and Robb slumber on in their chamber as though nothing has changed. 

It seems that despite all of her misgivings, House Stark endures. The night goes on.


End file.
